Incarnadine
by ayay89
Summary: Angel mid-season 5. Spike is being hunted by a vampire clan he wronged in the past. Angel and Spike learn to deal with each other. But the loss of Angel's soul threatens to break them apart. And yes, it is slash.
1. Chapter 1 and 2

Chapter 1

At first sight, it was just a random abandoned warehouse, easily dismissed by passersby and civilians. But it reeked. Not to the human nose, to the advanced trained nose of a vampire. Aside from the blatant smell of burning rubber (coulda noticed it from at least ten miles away) and the alarm bells resounding through his skull, the bad guys always chose the deserted warehouses. It was like a law.

Even his childes shacked up in one a long while ago. In Sunnydale.

His childes. Somehow it always came back to them. Full Circle. One in particular. With obnoxiously blonde hair and an arrogant smirk. Plagued his existence for over 100 years and continued to today. It had gotten worse ever since that damn amulet arrived at Wolfram and Hart. And that was at least a month ago. He was honestly surprised he hasn't staked the annoying pest yet.

In fact, that pest was the reason he was stuck in middle of nowhere (in the middle of nowhere in the middle of Los Angeles) searching through rundown buildings for his sorry ass. Spike had disappeared a few days ago. Went out for drinks after getting in his daily annoy-the-fuck-out-of-Angel quota.

Angel figured he was passed out in the shade of some alleyway, collapsed in filth, completely plastered. But when he failed to attend a weekly board meeting and didn't pick up his blood from the front desk, Fred had gotten worried, insisting that Angel interrupt his busy schedule saving the world (brooding) and search for him.

She was fond of the blond. Which was not good. Piles and piles of no good.

((God. I sound like Buffy))

He wasn't jealous though. Nope, no jealousy at all. He hated Spike. Despised him. Loathed him even.

Spike. With that infuriating smirk always plastered on his face and that duster...how could he even keep that? He stole it off a dead slayers body for Christ's sake. You would think that the soul, which he claims to have (Angel still isn't completely convinced), would be giving him enough guilt to make him stand in a patch of bright and cheery sunlight and burn to a crisp. Ha. Now that would make him so happy he would probably lose his own so-

The smell of rotting flesh and blood drew him out of his thoughts suddenly. Like slamming into a brick wall of rancid stench. Angel stumbled backwards, gagging on the smells that assaulted his nose.

The warehouse was dark with only scattered beams of light squinting through cracks of the decaying ceiling. Angel could sense something. Or rather his demon could. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and a shiver coursed down his spine. There was something irreplaceably off about this warehouse.

A movement to the left caught his attention. Before he could react though, a moan broke the eerie silence. Angel peered into the murky blackness, searching for the source. He willed his eyes to adjust and ventured deeper into the darkness.

Every step brought up a cloud of dust, making vision and smell nearly impossible. Blood stained the walls. Both new and old. He tried to discern the different scents. Most of it was human. Three women. A few men. And...uh oh. Spike.

Angel hurried forward. The air was coated with Spike's scent. He didn't know why he didn't recognize it before. Or sense him. Was he just not concentrating? Was he dead?

No. No. He was here. Somewhere.

He tripped over bodies that littered the center of the enormous room and nearly slipped on the slick blood that was slathered across the floor.

His childe was hurt. The demon raged inside, pushing against the bars, ready to snap.

The smell became stronger. Whiskey. Alcohol. Tobacco. Blood. Torture. Death.

He quickly rounded the pile of boxes stacked inconveniently in the middle of the building and came to a halt at the sight before him.

Spike. Lying on the cold cement floor in a very large puddle of his own blood. He was on his stomach, a sword impaled through the heart. Even with enhanced vision, Angel couldn't see much in the suffocating dust filled air, but as he got closer, the angry red lashed across his bare back criss-crossing with bright purple and black bruise became visible.

Angel knelt beside his childe, gently prodding his shoulder. He was unconscious, which would make this a lot easier. Angle grasped the sword and tried to carefully pull it out, but it wouldn't budge.

((It's stuck in the damn floor)) He realized angrily as his mind rapidly put together what had happened. ((The bastards impaled my boy to the floor...then beat him unconscious))

Angelus's fury was sated slightly as the demon planned the tortures the fuckers who injured his childe would soon endure. It would hurt. Last for days. Maybe weeks.

Angle grimaced and silently apologized for what he had to do. He didn't want to further harm his boy, but how the hell do you get out a sword driven through solid cement?

He stood atop Spike, placing his feet on either shoulder blade. Bracing himself, he gripped the handle and pulled with all his vampire-graced strength.

It took two efforts for the sword to finally come loose. Whatever had done this was strong.

Angel gingerly rolled Spike over, and winced in sympathy at Spikes broken body. Bruises decorated his face and body in colorful bursts

The color of soggy purple Marti Gras confetti.

Angel took inventory of the injuries. From what he could make out through the blood that veiled his face, the nose was broken; he had a split lip, and as a minimum one nasty black eye. His ribs were probably broken too. At least four. Damn.

Angel was startled when Spike convulsed abruptly, coughing blood onto the already red cement. Angel put his weight across his shoulders in an effort to calm the vampire down.

"Spike. William. Calm down." Angel commanded, going for soothing, but sounding more Angelus-y than his intention. Spike seemed to hear him, and relaxed anyway, some of the tension leaving his skeletal body.

His nostrils flared and he tried desperately to figure out where he was. The action flooded his lungs, and he choked, gushing more blood onto the floor. Opening his eyes took too much energy, but he already knew who was next to him.

"Angelus?" he croaked, his voice hoarse from unuse.

"Yes. Shh. I'm here," He ran his fingers through the mess of tangled curls, hoping to comfort him. Spike groped blindly for his sire's hand and gripped it tightly. Angel was moved by the silent gesture. His boy was always too proud to ask for help, much less accept it. But look at what he was reduced to. Lying broken and battered in a pool of his own blood. Oh, those fuckers are gonna pay.

Chapter 2. Part 1

The door burst open, startling everyone in the yet to begin board meeting. They had been waiting over an hour for their boss and were about to give up and leave when he entered. The front of his shirt and hands were soaked in red, which alarmed everyone.

"Angel! Are you alright?" Wes asked getting up from his chair and ready to rush into action.

"Yeah. I'm fine. This...this isn't mine. Fred, I need you in the medical ward. Now."

"Okay. Everything is okay, right?" She asked nervously, gathering up her belongings. It was unusual for Angel to be so...upset. He was usually all broody and depressed. He looked distressed, like when Darla had died.

"It's Spike. He's hurt. Bad." He spun and left, nearly sprinting down the halls of Wolfram and Hart, Fred following, the others in tow. They weaved in between lawyers and clients, dashing after the vampire. Most employees didn't leave until midnight, at least an hour away.

Angel pushed through the group of scientists, which he had herded into the halls to keep his boy safe. Spike lay sprawled atop an examining table already smeared with blood.

"Oh God" Fred exclaimed accompanied by a little squeaking noise worthy of Cordelia. She rushed to Angel's side and looked over the damage. The others streamed in with similar responses.

"Ugh. What is that stench?" Gunn asked, backing away from the table. Everyone smelt it, but chose to ignore it.

"It smells like-"

"Burnt flesh" Angel finished Lorne's comment. He took a wet rag and gently wiped at his childe's cheek. The blood gave way to blackened burns imprinted into his usually perfect pale skin. The shape of a cross slowly began to form.

"My word. What did this Angel?" Spike was a skilled fight and the former watcher found it hard to imagine who could have done this. It has proved exceedingly difficult to get rid of Spike. The man came back from the dead (figuratively speaking) for bloody sake.

"I...I don't know." Angel admitted. He looked down at Spike, a wave of guilt rushing over him. Lorne, being the incredibly talented – and annoying – demon he was, sensed it.

"Awwww. Angelhair, this isn't your fault."

"Of course Angel. You cannot bla-"

"Look, can we save this for later? Spike needs help." His eyes flared with gold flecks and threatened to give way to his demon visage. Everyone seemed to back off, giving Fred and Angel some space.

"We need to get this blood off him before I can do anything." Cakes of dry blood covered his face and back, where the majority of his injuries were. It was hard to see anything, like a sheet of deep rust disguised his lean body.

"Alright. I'll get him in the shower, wash it off." Angel gathered Spike in his arms and carried him to the showers in the back corner of the room. He shut the door and laid him on the floor. Sighing he carefully undid the button and pulled off his trademark leather pants, which were nearly glued to his skin now.

His boy looked so fragile and small lying on the huge expanse of floor. Probably because he weighed next to nothing. Must have lost a lot of blood in the warehouse. He didn't think there was any left. But the tiny crimson droplets, which dotted the white tiled floor, proved otherwise.

Maneuvering him into the shower was fairly easy. Trying to support him, and scrub off the blood, while not further harming him was difficult. But he managed.

He wrapped deposited a clean Spike concealed by a towel back on the table. To his relief, most everyone had filed out, leaving only Fred behind.

The harsh light made his childe appear more gaunt and pale than usual. It also made the reds, blues, and blacks, brighter and more extreme. It was a job worthy of Angelus, Angel realized with a pang of familiar guilt. Although Angelus would have used holy water instead of crosses; it tended to eat through the skin deeper and hurt like a bitch.

((You bleed so pretty boy))

Fred moved from her place in the corner to tend to the vampire. She cringed as she nudged his purple adorned side for broken ribs.

The scent of his childe's blood filled Angel's consciousness and brought back unwelcome memories. With nothing to do but wait for Fred to finish her ministrations to the motionless body, lying vulnerable on the steel table, reality began to fade.

It was like fuzzy radio stations, you continue searching but can never find the right one. Even if you could, it would be too distorted and static-y to recognize.

((A loud scream unsettled the silence of the room yet again. "They've been at it for hours. Don't they know some vampires need their sleep?" Darla whined. The boy was all he ever thought about these days. He'd pay for that. Always does. "Now, now grandmum. Let daddy have his fun."))

He did pay. Darla strung him up by his wrists in a deserted cellar. The ones smelling of cheap whiskey and piss, with rats crawling from every crevice. Tortured him for days. Then left him there.

(("Where is my poor William? The raindrops carry his blood. Paint the city with it they do. And I can't seem to find him."))

(("The runt always is the strongest of the litter, isn't he Angelus?" "That he is"))

Angel shivered and ran a hand through his hair (yep, straight up). Spike was always the strongest. Never gave up. Even when he submitted to Angelus' endless torture sessions, there was always the glint of arrogance, of determination, of passion behind his piercing blue eyes.

Angel glanced over to the table again. No blue. He was on his stomach, hand draped over the edge. Fred was carefully cleaning the lashes across the vampire's back.

* * *

It must have been a whip. It looked painful. The wounds were still weeping, almost bleeding through. She delicately bandaged them anyway and shifted her attention to the gaping hole through his chest.

She didn't know if stitches would work. Did vampires even need them? She ran a wet rag over the blood-encrusted area, hoping to get a better assessment of the damage.

This was one of the worst parts of the job. Seeing your friends hurt and in pain, which would inevitably happen, and not being able to make it go away. Fred settled with making it at least a tad more bearable. Which is why she took pride in her job. Although she was not a qualified medic, she knew what she was doing.

In the corner of her vision, she could see Angel pacing back and forth, running a ditch through the floor. She wished he wouldn't do that. It was distracting.

"Bloody hell, luv!" She jumped back, startled that the muffled voice belonged to her patient. She must have lost herself and hit a tender mark or something. ((Oops.))

"Oh Spike! I am so sorry. I didn't mean t—"She was cut off once again by Angel rushing to the side of the table.

"Spike? Are you alight?"

Stupid question. Spike tried to sneer at him and inject a clever and snarky remark, but instantly regretted it. A sharp pain shot from his cheek through his jaw. He hissed and moved to examine his face but Fred swatted his hand away.

"Don't touch it. It needs to heal." Oh yeah. The cross. Ow.

Spike resigned and let the girl finish poking at his back. His side ached and his flesh was on fire. Felt like a he was doused in holy water. Was he? The last few days were a blur of rank smells and pain. That was partly because he was pissing drunk, and partly because he'd been either unconscious or in the agonizingly slow process of becoming unconscious.

His head pounded and his nose throbbed (bollocks. Not the nose) and he desperately wished to be unconscious again.

He slowly became aware of Angel's staring at him and tried to ignore him. Was going to. Before he grew increasingly nervous and had the impulsive urge to run away and disappear.

"What are you gawking at peaches?" His voice was filled with contempt. Each syllable strained his cheek.

Angel diverted his eyes and muttered a quick dismissal before exiting the room. What the hell was his problem?

Fred yanked painfully on the bindings around his ribs and announced an offensively chirpy "All Done!"

Spike groaned and tried to sit up. Each movement was laced with pain, coursing through his body. Time was ticking by frustratingly slow, like in the Matrix. You got so fucking irritated at the actors being stuck in time, that you threw your beer at the telly, hoping to speed them up and get on with the damn movie. Or at least Spike did.

He was about to hop off the rather uncomfortable table, when he noticed only a towel covered him. He cleared his throat rather painfully, hoping to get the bint's attention, but she didn't notice.

"Uh, pet? Can I get something to...?" He motioned to the obvious nudeness "Cuz unless you want a peek..."

"Oh yeah! I'm sorry! I was just so preoccupied with the blood and you that I sorta just forgot. You know how it is." She turned a pretty shade of red and dug some sweats out of a drawer while continuing rambling.

"Yeah. 'S fine." The pants were a tasteless bland gray. Most likely the poof's.


	2. Chapter 3

Chapter 3. Part 1.

Fred scuttled out of the room and quietly closed the door behind her. Spike could hear every word through the not so reinforced walls.

"How is he?" Obviously Peaches. Was he worried?

"He should be alright, far as I can tell. Aside from your standard bumps and bruises, the only thing broken is his nose and a few ribs. He also has some nasty cuts and lacerations across his back, not to mention the hole through his heart."

The silence that followed must have been everyone trying to comprehend the hastily spewed words. Spike silently opened the door behind her and leaned heavily on the frame. He was going for inconspicuous. All eyes turned to him. He fidgeted anxiously and turned away from their close scrutiny.

His wet hair was mussed and sticking in all different directions. Moisture still lingered on his pale body, clearly distracting Angel.

"Hey Spikelicious, how ya feeling?"

"'M fine. Just a few scratches 's all. Angelus? A little help?" He motioned to his shoulder, "dislocated."

Angel moved to his childe, forcing everyone to give them some space. His eyes shone with warmth, a glimpse of pride. Spike suspected he was all self- important because he asked him, not any one else to help. That was only because his sire had done it before. Not like he trusted him or anything. ((Don't get too goddamn cocky you sod))

He grabbed Spike's bicep and forearm expertly. He'd done this before. Both had. Spike gave a brisk nod and clenched the edge of the wall a little tighter. An audible pop filled the air and Spike doubled over.

"Bloody buggering fuck!" he yelled, trying to regain composure. In a few seconds he returned to full height and gave Angel his trademark smirk. "Thanks mate."

"Well, um," Wesley stammered, straightening his glasses in that incredibly aggravating way watchers tend to do, "Spike, do you have any idea who did...this?"

"No, sorry watcher." He didn't want to talk about anything now. Just wanted to sleep, for a very long time, maybe the rest of his unlife. This discussion would lead nowhere.

A growing sense of anxiety washed over him, and the need to flee intensified. Angel thankfully sensed this and decided, against his better judgment, to talk later, one on one. Spike was too quiet. Something was definitely wrong. Bringing everything to attention now would not help, no matter how tempting – very, considering the patience level of the demon slaying crew – it is.

Wesley had other ideas though. "So you didn't see anything at all? Distinguishing marks? Symbols? Hear anyt—"

A deep growl rumbled in Angel's chest protectively, warning Wes to shut the hell up before he ripped his head off. It was a familiar sound to Spike. Angelus used to do it all the time. Whenever he was brassed off or about to beat his ass. Hearing it again set him on edge, even if it was directed elsewhere.

"But we can talk later. You should rest. Get back your strength." Wes smiled smugly, proud of his recovery. The group quickly dissipated, going off to rid the world of evil. Some more.

Spike, drawing his focus away from the piece of paper lying on the floor, tried to take a deep breath, attempting to move, but instead got a lung full of blood. Coughing violently, he would have crumpled to the floor if Angel hadn't caught him. Red splattered the hideous beige carpet, dripping from his quivering lip in steady beats. Angel waited patiently for the dead weight in his arms to recover. His boy needed blood. Now.

Fortunately, Harmony was close by and delivered a jug full of 0-neg to her boss's suite. Finding his strength, Spike shrugged off Angel, trying to salvage what little dignity he could. All ready reduced to nothing but a trembling form seeking refuge in a not-quite-evil vampire's law firm. Bloody hell. He really was pathetic, wasn't he? And to make it worse, there was a building full of humans – disgusting revolting lower species humans –witnessing and mocking at his demise.

With a determined grimace, he took a couple shaky steps, faltered, but again the sodding poof caught him.

"Somehow, I doubt that Spike. Come on." Angel suspected something was wrong when Spike relented. Seriously, horribly wrong. Without so much of a complaint or insult or even a grumble.

Every step caused Spike's shattered ribs to grind together, the crunch not escaping Angel's hearing. He would offer to carry him, but Spike would be too proud and goddamn stubborn to accept.

Incredibly, they traversed the stairs and reached Angel's room without resting. His whole weight (which really was not much) leaned against the older vampire, the stretch of touching skin bringing an old inkling of pleasure.

"What's this then?" He was trying not to aggravate the split lip or burn, but for some reason the universe hated him and it was impossible.

"You can stay here. Should stay here, so you'll be safe." Both heard the unspoken words, I want you here.

Spike was led to the bed, where Angel brought him a mug of blood.

He gulped down the warm liquid as fast as the injuries would allow and shoved it out for a refill. He was starving. Probably looked it too. Angel made a disapproving noise when on the third mug he gave it back half full.

"Spike. Drink some more."

He pressed his eyes together and delicately laid down on the bed. "No' now. Hurts." Everything ached and each moment was fucking suffering and Peaches was only antagonizing it.

Angel gave in, not satisfied, and disappeared from view to put the remainder of the blood away and change out of the ruin clothes. When he returned, Spike was already asleep, sweatpants discarded in the center of the floor.

Chapter 3. Part 2.

Angel trudged into the room. It was mid-morning, the rays of sun shining brightly outside. The heavy curtains were drawn tightly closed, even with the fancy windows that blocked the harmful effect of the sun. It was still unsettling and still set off alarms in his head. Very loud alarms.

After downing a glass of blood, he checked on his new bedmate. His childe was stretched out in the bed. The deep red sheets riding his waist dangerously low. The color was a nice a contrast to the beautifully pale skin (ignore bruising) and shock of white hair that curled softly around his race.

He was still extremely skinny and gaunt from blood loss; Angel could count every rib (which were wrapped in bandages but Spike was never patient enough to see it through). His hipbones jutted out beneath the flimsy sheet, leaving little to the imagination. Angel felt a surge of pride that he had created something so perfect.

Exhausted, he stripped off the horribly uncomfortable suit that he was forced to wear while prancing around the building. He hated it at Wolfram and Hart. Had trouble keeping the goal in view, the end.

Once in a while, he yearned to relinquish control and release his demon. Drink freely without consequences. A good massacre. Good for the soul. But of course that would be considered fun (is strictly not allowed) and would give him a "happy", so he couldn't. It was still an interesting idea, though. Too bad.

Angel wearily slipped into the huge bed next to Spike. The blond whimpered softly and instinctively curled into his sire, seeking comfort. Angel encircled the younger vampire with his larger body and gently stroked his hand through the surprising soft hair.

He had forgotten what it was like. Being close. To anyone. His family. It was nice. Warm. Welcoming. He was satisfied. Like nothing in the world mattered, but protecting the body against him. Forever.

Spike nudged his head against Angel's chest, just below the collarbone, the way a cat might do. His steady breath tickled Angel and sent a tingling sensation through his body.

He was content lying there. His chin rested upon Spike's head, bodies entwined and intimate. Just like old times, except without the torture, maiming, and killing. They were close. Where they were supposed to be. It was pure ecstasy. Like for once in the world, everything was right. Connected. In place.

He could almost feel everything fall into order, a huge shift that lifted the dark weight compressing them.

Spike's slender fingers glided down Angel's torso, creating a pattern only he could see. A slight smile played across his lips. This wouldn't last and he was counting down the time until the unavoidable smash. He tried not thinking about it and concentrated on relishing the moment.

Spike flinched and stifled a groan when his sire brushed an especially sore gash.

"Sorry."

Spike said some incoherent mumblings, pulled away from Angel and slid out of the bed gingerly, breaking the rare serene moment they had created. It was all or nothing: gentle heartfelt moments or violent rages of destruction.

"Spike, wait a minute, we need to talk."

The younger vampire stumbled to the drawer and pulled on some random clothes of Angel's that didn't necessarily fit, but would suffice. He stalled by asking for a drink. Angel disappeared into the kitchen and returned with warm blood and a bottle of Jack Daniels.

He took the bottle with a nod, given as a peace offering and a method of distraction. The two vampires sat together at the table furthest from the windows.

The afternoon light shone through the now exposed windows, their table just out of range, a wide arch of harmless light skimming the edge.

They drank in silence for a long while.

It disturbed Angel. Spike was always a constant ball of energy, never could sit still. But the vampire in front of him was quiet, defeated. Not Spike. Not a drop of defiance, of arrogance. He was slumped in his chair, favoring his left side.

Angel wanted desperately to help, to somehow guide him. Or just to hold him forever. He attempted eye contact numerous times, but Spike was engrossed with a knot in the wood, as if it contained the answers to all his problems. None of which the older vampire knew about. Never occurred to him to ask. Until now.

"Spike?" Angel asked softly, patiently. "What happened?"

"Don' remember."

"Bullshit, Spike. What happened?"

There was a pause. Confusion clouded his bruised face, as if he was trying to make sense of something, clarify some big decision that just wound itself into a bigger knot the more he thought.

"Remember 1897? In France?" His voice was reluctant, fingers running circles around the edge of his glass.

"Of course."

"Remember April?"

Angel didn't know what he was getting at. There was nothing of significance in April 1897. Wreaked havoc across Europe, torture some people, killed a few more.

"Oh... Pères de Tomes."

Angel suddenly felt very heavy, a feeling of everything spiraling out of control. The Peres de Tomes were some badass guys. Spike, he had killed at least ten of their members. A massacre. It was beautiful. Entrails draped across their fancy chandeliers and brain spattered the elegant drapes.

Course, he was barely older than a fledge, just going on eight. Didn't know any better than to piss off the biggest baddest clan in town. Probably enjoyed it the whole while.

They hunted him, vowing revenge and forcing the order to leave France.

"Y' know, I still hear them."

The shift in topic puzzled Angel. His childe suddenly looked very young and innocent, like when they first found him, which worried him.

"Who?"

"The people I killed."

Oh. Angel struggled against the urge to pull him into a tight embrace. He didn't how he would respond. Didn't know why he felt it either. He was supposed to hate Spike. Loathe him. Where did all the fuzzy feelings come from and why can't he seem to fight them?

"I know."

"Does it always hurt?"

"Yeah," he said frankly. He should know, lived with the damn thing for over 110 years.

"I told them I was sorry. Said I'd take it back if I could. Doesn't matter though does it? None of it."

"It will matter, some day. There's some means for redemption in all this."

"Yeah for you maybe," he snorted. "You get to be all shanshu-ed up. Be the sodding hero. While I get a one-way trip to hell, with bloody first class seats."

Angel fought for control of his anger and tried to remind himself that he was supposed to be helping.

"It's not like that."

"How would you know?"

"I don't, Spike. But I have to believe it."

"Really, why's that then? Is this some grand religious scheme of things? 'Cause you should know, I really don't swing that way, Peaches."

"I have to believe it. There's no other alternative in this, for either of us. We have done enough evil, both of us, to be damned for eternity, no matter how much good we do! This isn't about becoming human. This is about redemption and atonement. Isn't that why you got your soul? To make up for what you did, to Buffy. Tried to rape her so you figure you go get yourself a shiny new soul, make her forgive you. Guilt her into—"

"It is none of your bloody business why I got my soul! I did what I had to do, so you can sod off."

Spike downed his beer, searched through his pockets for cigarettes absentmindedly, signaling the end of the conversation.

"Bloody hell. You got some smokes on ya?"

Angel gave him an incredulous glance.

"Course not, why would ya...Do you think they're done?"

Angel lost his place again.

"Done what?"

"Exacting their vengeance."

"Probably not."

"Figured as much. So what's their next move?" Spike asked, shifting painfully in his seat. Why does a vampire have wooden chairs anyway?

"I don't know. But whatever it is, we need to be prepared."

"Don't know if we can be. They got reinforcements Angel. Lots of reinforcements."

"We have an evil law firm." A slight smile spread across their faces. "Doesn't quite seem fair, does it?"

"No' at all


	3. Chapter 4 and 5

Most of Part 2 is NC-17 and can be found on my live journal (see profile for link) but because of censors, had to be excluded.

Chapter 4. Part 1.  
  
The two marched into the office, demanding the attention of everyone in the room. Well, Angel marched, Spike more like limped in, flopping down on the nearest chair. Angel swung directly into boss mode, dealing out orders in a stern voice.

"Wes, I need you to find any information on the Pères de Tomes. They're an ancient French order of vampires, go back into the 1300s. Gunn and Lorne, you need to use your underground contacts and dig up anything about them. Enemies, weaknesses, location, allies, powers, whatever'll help. Fred, help Wesley research. No one do anything without my approval. No one mention anything to anyone outside this room. It stays in here. I don't want the Senior Partners messing in this. Everyone understand? Good."

Angel moved to his desk, picked up the phone, and ordered more blood while the rustling of people leaving faded away. In a few moments, Harmony brought in a jug of B positive and shrieked a very high-pitched scream when she noticed Spike.

"Blondie Bear! Oh, are you all right? I heard what happened and—"She had him gathered into a hug, which must've hurt like hell. Spike yelped, pushing her away.

"Bugger off, Harms."

"Oh! Did I hurt you? My poor baby."

"Harmony, I don't care. Now leave."

"Okay, okay. You don't need to get snooty with me. I get the picture."

She pouted and flounced out of the room.

They both shared a disbelieving look as Angel joined him on the couch.

"God, she is annoying."

"Don't know how you can stand her, mate."

"You're the one who slept with her."

"Yeah, but that was a long time ago and only 'cause Dru...Dru left."

Angel knew it still hurt to think about her. He felt a twinge of sympathy for his companion. He loved her, was devoted to her for eternity, and he lost her. Partly because of him. His un-souled alter ego, ruining their relationship.

"Do you miss her?"

"...Yeah," he replied his voice husky with emotion. He stared into the red reflection of the ceiling, himself conspicuously missing.

Angel chanced contact and pulled his childe closer, wrapping his arm around his shoulders, so the younger man's head rested on his shoulder. Spike didn't react, so he tightened his grip.

"I'm sorry."

He was. It was his fault after all. If Angelus hadn't made Drusilla, then William would never have been turned and none of this would've happened.

They weren't aware of how long they sat together, in comfortable silence. Angel drifted to sleep, the first real rest he had in weeks. Felt nice.

He awoke hours later, noting the slick sticky feeling which coated his arm and the smell of childe blood wafting in the air.

Angel could feel Spike's weight resting against his shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and the wetness soaking both their clothes.

"Spike?" He nudged the body next to him, a tendril of fear wisping through his conscience when Spike didn't respond.

"Hey, Spike?"

"What!" He stirred; slowly waking. Clearly upset his sire had roused him, a sharp pain reminding him not to breathe.

"You're bleeding."

He checked himself over, frowning at the blood that covered his shirt.

"Hmm...Seems so."

"Take off your shirt," Angel ordered, standing in front of his childe, holding his hand out for the doused clothing.

"Can't wait to get me undressed, can you love?" The nickname rolled of his tongue with surprising ease.

"Just give me your shirt."

He carefully peeled off the shirt, wincing when it dragged against the wounds, only crying out a few times.

"You're never gonna borrow my clothes again." Angel threw the ruined shirt in the trash bin with a wet plop. "That was my favorite shirt!"

"Piss off."

Angel took a bag of bandages and antiseptic from a cabinet behind the counter and arranged them on the coffee table. Vamps didn't really need antiseptic, but it couldn't hurt to try.

"Hold still."

The older vampire nearly choked. The stab wound (where he was impaled to the floor) was bleeding extensively, from both sides. He gently cleaned the torn flesh, his "patient" hissing every time he hit a sore spot. He was going to need more gauze.

After the sword wound was bandaged and clean, Angel prodded his black and blue torso. Ribs weren't looking much better either.

Spike squirmed from his touch, shouting an indignant "Watch it!"

"You really should bind these. Before it sets wrong...Turn around"

He obeyed. Noting sourly that he still complied with the reflex established a century ago.

The red lashes and welts weren't healing. Just growing steadily worse, seeping blood. The burns surrounding it, Angel noticed, were black, seared and blistered.

"Jesus, Spike." It shouldn't be this bad, not after 24 hours. Vampire healing would have repaired at least half of it.

"That bad, huh?"

"To put it lightly. Does it hurt?"

Spike chuckled, which felt like his ribs were clattering around inside him, so he stopped. "No, Peaches...It feels like a sodding parade. You know, the kind... with the big balloons and Santa...Claus at the end."

"Don't joke, Spike. Why aren't you healing?"

"Now how am I suppos—oww—to know? Drank all the blood, what more do you want?"

((Blood! He needs my blood))

With out warning, Angel morphed into game face, slitting his wrist with his fangs, and held his arm towards Spike's mouth.

"Drink."

Spike looked at him like he was crazy. Like he absofuckinglutley nuts. Which he must have been. His sire had never offered him his blood before. Least not without being drained dry first.

"Are you fucking crazy?"

"Spike, you need the blood. MY blood. It'll heal you faster."

"No. No way. I don' need your blood or your tossing help." He was not going to drink from his Sire. That could reopen the blood bond, which was not good, a huge pile of not good. Wasn't going to be claimed again.

"Spike!" He yelled, exasperated, presenting his wrist once more.

"Bollocks to that."

He tried to get up and make for the door. Angel shoved him back down, quickly stratling him. Spike began to fight back, but a large hand clamped around his wrists.

"Will. Drink."

Spike, seeing no alternative—and risking a beating—relented, latching on to his Sire's wrist and sucking the invigorating blood from the wound. He felt the cool liquid slide down his throat, spreading warmth throughout his dead body. His head was spinning, felt like he was floating in a really big pool of beer, making the world contort. Like feeding from the hippy at Woodstock, except without the after taste.

Angel let his childe have a good amount of his blood, not stopping him until he couldn't make out the time on the clock. He was concerned about the Sire-Childe link, but ignored it. His boy's healing was more important.

Spike whined when he was wretched away from the intoxicating blood. Angel, feeling lightheaded, collapsed in the couch. He drank some blood his childe had retrieved for him from the kitchen. The shrill ring of the phone surprised them, making them both jump up ready for an attack.

Spike answered the phone, leaving his sire to rest and regain his strength. It was hard to concentrate on anything. Adrenaline rushed through his system and made the world tilt momentarily, enough so he stumbled back to regain his balance, nearly tugging the phone off the desk in the process.

"...Hullo?"

"Spike? Where's Angel?"

"He's...busy right now."

"Is he alright? What did you do?"

"I didn' do anything, watcher."

"Are you drunk?"

"No, not drunk, just a little..." His voice trailed off, not knowing what he should say. It really wasn't any of the boy's business.

"Hello? Spike?"

"Yeah, 'm here."

"Okay, when Angel is you tell him to come to my office?"

"No' a problem, mate."

"Right, yes...goodbye"

"Ta."

He struggled to get the phone in its cradle without falling headfirst into the desk. Damn, the hippie has nothing on this shit. He had forgotten how invigorating Sire blood was. Felt better already.

"Who was that?"

"The watcher. Wants to see you."

Angel groaned and rose slowly. "Okay. You should get some rest."

"Will do."

Chapter 4. Part 2.

"Whatchya got?"

Angel navigated his way through the stacks of books carefully. Still feeling a little light headed, he leaned against the desk. Fred was perched on a stool in the far corner, buried in a book ten times too big for her. Wesley sifted through papers, sitting on the floor.

"We haven't found much. The Pères de Tomes have proved to be shrouded in mystery. The only text containing useful information is in a rare demon language called...H'kswark. It was last used in the 1700s. I could find a demon translator somewhere. Maybe an alternate dimension. Like—"

"No. I don't want the guys up there in on this. Let me see."

He took the book, flipped through the pages.

"Unless you can find someone to read that, I think we're all researched out."

"Keep looking. There has to be something."

"Angel, why are we searching for an order lost centuries ago? It seems rather pointless."

"Spike. He killed at least ten of the members. In 1897."

"A year before you were cursed."

Angel nodded. "I...I didn't think they would be after him. It was almost a year later but..."

Fred looked up from her book. "Are they the ones who hurt him?"

"Yeah. And I don't think they're done. We need to destroy them. Before they kill again."

"I agree, but how are we supposed to find an order that doesn't exist anymore. According to records, the last member was dusted in 1933."

"1933?"

"Yes. Ring any bells?"

"No. I'll check with Gunn and Lorne. See what they've found. I want you two to keep investigating."

"Right. Only been going for five hours. What's a few more anyway?"

By the time he had finished speaking, Angel had already left, black trench swirling out the door.

He went directly to his room, warding off any lawyers, clients, or smelly slime demons on the way. Wolfram and Hart was loud and giving him a migraine. Voices echoed off the walls, pulsating through the building, up his spine.

Luckily, the rooms were sound proof, and any obnoxious lawyers arguing on their cell phones were blocked.

Spike was sprawled on the bed, covers twisted around his waist. Angel poured some more blood and took a seat across from the bed. He watched his boy. Studying the rise and fall of his chest, the curve of his lips, the straight angles of his jaw.

The bruises appeared to be fading. A little. The color was more blue and less black. The bright red cuts and black scorches also seemed dimmer. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking.

Spike's left arm was draped over the side of the bed. His right rested above his head, on the pillow. Angel noted how skinny his boy was. His wrists had felt so tiny in his hands earlier. Could easily wrap his entire hand around them.

His ribs also protruded significantly. Giving off the appearance of a skeleton, with skin taut over top.

He cursed himself again for letting this happen. He should have protected him. Should have done...something. Anything to keep him safe. But that wasn't his concern, was it? He was too wrapped up in saving the world—from an evil law firm that he just happened to be president of—to pay attention to his childe. His responsibility.

"Are you just gonna stare, or say something?" Spike asked without moving.

"Sorry. I..."

"...was just gazing at my astonishing beauty?"

Angel chuckled. "Something like that."

-------for the NC-17 continuation go to profile for link-------

Chapter 5. Part 1.

He tried to blame it on the exhaustion. Tried to blame it on bad blood. He also tried to blame it on a spell or a hex or a curse. Or even the Sire- Childe bond. But it didn't erase what was there.

Something.

Something was there. He wasn't sure what.

It wasn't what they used to have. His true sire was a bastard. Simply put. A drunk, obnoxious, sodding bastard.

The reincarnation of that sire was even worse. What was it...five years ago? Back in Sunnyhell. That sire was a fucking maniac. Obsessive. Particularly over the Slayer. And the family. Like him and Dru. Stupid prick.

Always had to ruin everything he worked so hard to create. He's the one who held the family together after Angelus got all souled up. Darla ran. Bitch. He's the one who kept Dru safe. Created a name for himself. Killed two slayers. But his sire didn't care. Left him in the bloody wheelchair and fucked Dru. Made him watch. Stupid tossing cunt.

Then there's Peaches. This one was a trip, he was. With the guilt and soulness. Always the pissing hero. Save the day and leave everyone in the dark. Like now. Ran out the second Gunn called. Left him—lying in the bed, still naked, still wet—to be the sodding fucking martyr.

Bollocks. This was spinning out of control. Like a tornado. Everything getting all mixed up and then tossed about, leaving him to pick through the rubble. Looking for his pieces.

He sighed and crawled out of the bed, scowling at the moist spots.

"Great, just bloody great."

He trudged into the bathroom, wincing and growling at his obvious limp, and turned the shower on cold. The icy water soothed some of his cuts; numbing whatever feeling he had left. He slid down the smooth tile, sitting in a heap. His head leaned against the knuckles of his right hand. How did this happen? It wasn't supposed to. He was supposed to become corporeal, steal the poof's viper, get wasted, and then go see Buffy and be happy. For once. That was the plan. The big-master-fucking-plan. But now that didn't work, did it? Nope.

So, he may not want to kill Angel. Not usually at least. But at the moment, his fingers were just itching for a stake. A nice wooden one. Maybe with splinters.

And, he just might've thought his sire was a little attractive and just might've have been reliving—in more detail than he would admit—some past...moments. Might.

Did Angel think the same things? Of course not. He couldn't have been. He didn't even get a happy in the bed. Although, he seemed a bit more than happy. Ardent, fervent was more accurate.

Damn.

He heard the water running before he opened the door and could smell the salty tears, which would later be blamed on the soap. Although there wasn't any around.

Quietly, he opened the door. His childe was curled in a ball on the shower floor. The water splashed over him, running off his nose and chin. His eyes were closed, but Angel could tell from the heavy breathing that he wasn't asleep.

The dark haired vampire moved into the bathroom, letting the door creak to announce his presence. Spike didn't respond.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking a shower," He replied with out opening his eyes.

"Sitting down?"

"You have a problem with that Peaches?" The bitterness in his voice stung.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothin."

"You're brooding."

"Am not." That was hardly the fiery response he was looking for. But then again, his childe never did respond well to kindness.

"Yes you are. Now get out of my shower."

"Why?"

"Because it's my shower, this is my room, this my building, and I want you out." He dragged the younger vampire from the shower, noting with surprise how cold the water was. And how cold his childe was. His skin was like ice. How long had he been in there?

"So what, we fuck and then you kick me to the side? Is that all this is? An easy fuck? Just so you can get a bloody hard-on?" He exploded, pushing Angel away and storming into the bedroom.

"No Spike, it's more than that!"

He snorted. "Bollocks! You're just using me, aren't you? You don't really care! You never did. 'M just convenient! Was a hundred years ago and still am now! Your bloody whipping boy, aren't I?"

"Where is this coming from?" I never said—"

"Ya didn't have ta' say! It's all I ever was to you and all I'll ever be."

"What are you talking about? This is more than a good fuck! More than just convenient! You're more than just convenient. Can't you feel it?"

The blond stared at the floor, jaw muscles clenching and unclenching methodically, panting. "Just leave me alone." He picked up some of Angel's clothes with shivering hands.

"Spike, wait, we need to talk about this."

"No. I'm done talking."

"We didn't even start. You just yelled at me the whole t—"He was cut off by the door slamming shut.

"Dammit," He groaned, collapsing heavily onto the couch, mulling over what just happened.

Chapter 5. Part 2.

He spent the first day in a bar. Drinking as much as he possibly could.

He had actually forgotten everything for a few blissful moments. The whole lot disappeared. Angelus. Buffy. Confusion. Guilt. Love. Peaches. It all didn't matter. Just vanished. Like it never existed. He thought he was in heaven. But then he realized he passed out and hit his head on the table.

After the bar lost its appeal and the beer just quit working, he stumbled into the alley and passed out again. Luckily the buildings provided enough shade.

On the second day, he fed. Didn't kill them though. Soul wouldn't agree with that. Give him hell for it. Just took enough to satisfy his demon and moved on, heading west, towards the docks.

The blood helped heal whatever injuries he had left. The sire blood didn't hurt either, but he pushed those thoughts aside before they had a chance to cultivate.

Stupid goddamn soul. Always having to be so reasonable. Analyze every piece of fucking information.

Walked a good twenty miles in that night. Got to the warehouse before dawn. He had considered that the Peres de Tomes would still be there, but with a severe hangover and still being properly pissed, he couldn't find the energy to care.

Part of him wished they were there. Wanted to beat the shit out of them. The demon was still reeling from the torture and humiliation it suffered only days ago. Listing the number of ways to eviscerate a vamp while keeping them from dust.

But the place was empty. Even the rotting bodies had been removed. Good. The building had reeked. Especially when face down in a puddle of blood for days, having nothing to do but play guess-which-vile-smell-you're-lying-in- now.

He got in and out as quick as he could. As much as he'd like to pretend otherwise, the place made him nervous, tense.

He found it behind a stack of boxes, thrown carelessly in a heap. Bleeding wankers. That duster was special. Had a lot of memories with it. Good times.

The third day, most of the superficial injuries gone, he got back into the fighting circuit. Was surprised to realize he missed it so much. Was also surprised so many people had heard of him. So many also heard he had a soul. Was harmless. Well bugger them; they were in for a rude awakening.

The first few rounds were easy. Stupid fledges, hardly a year old. Dusted them right quick. The following got a little more interesting. Some demons thrown in the mix. Most were simple kills. Slow and dumb, easy to take down, snap their necks.

As the night progressed, word traveled that 'William the Bloody' was back, and a crowd gathered. Pathetic tossers were betting against him.

By the last rounds of the night, the place was packed. Vamps, demons, and even some brave—or incredibly foolish—humans.

He won every match. With only a black eye, split lip, and few cuts from a T'wrat'shan demon. Ugly buggers. Poisonous spit and razor sharp teeth scaling their bodies.

But the last one, named Rek, was the champion. A legend. Never lost one fight. He was a hybrid—Wartivk and Nysichari. Now this one was the ugliest one he ever saw. Forget the chaos demon Dru cheated on him with—this one won the jackpot.

The fight started out normal enough. Traded punches, got in a few body blows. Spike appeared to gain the upper hand, knocking his opponent to his knees. But suddenly the bastard jumped up and threw one punch—one fucking punch—that sent him flying across the makeshift "ring" and crashing through a table. Like a surge of power from an electrical outlet. Which, as it turned out, he actually had. Metaphorically. He could charge his movements, using some electrical field crap to enforce his punches. Whatever.

The bloke strutted over and picked him up by the lapels of his jacket, tossing him back in the designated area. Boots landed furiously on his freshly healed ribs, snapping them like twigs.

The blond cried out and tried to grab the other guy's foot, but only got his hand grinded into the hard floor.

The fight continued for what seemed like hours. Rek drew it out as long as possible, protecting his territory and proving his dominance. But Angelus did worse. Years with his sire had taught him one thing: he was in control. His sire had the power. He did not. Neither did the sodding pillock pounding his face into the wall like a bloody woodpecker.

Spike growled and flung his head back, crushing Rek's nose. The demon stumbled backwards, stunned. With a manic laugh, the vampire laid into his opponent, beating him with punishing blows. The crack of Rek's collarbone could be heard over the scattered cheers and boos of the raucous crowd. So could the snap of his neck.

Within minutes, Rek landed in a heap on the grimy wooden floor and declared "loser".


	4. Chapter 6 and 7

Chapter 6. Part 1.

Where the fuck was he? Did he think it was funny? Just a big joke? No, the fury and turmoil in his eyes had been real. Sparkling with intensity. This was serious. And he had no idea what set it off.

No one had seen him since their fight and he was beside himself with worry. Thousands of questions ran through his mind, plotting out every scenario, possibly making a fucking graph of the outcomes where Spike comes back alive.

He paced back and forth, like a caged animal, occasionally growling when he caught a glance at the clock. Four days. 98 fucking hours. Still no sign of the bleached nuisance.

Normally he would be happy. Thrilled to have relief from the annoying constant banter of his childe. But his heart was weighed down with worry and his soul was drenched in guilt.

He should have left well enough alone. Never should have pushed Spike and been so damn stubborn. Should have paid attention to the fire behind the cerulean blue eyes. Instead of letting that infuriate him more.

Also should've considered the soul. Souled Spike is more complex than un- souled Spike. This was a whole new game. Not the same old dance they've been doing for so long. Need to write a whole new book of rules.

His musings were interrupted by Harmony's painfully cheerful voice over the intercom.

"Boss? Uh...we have a problem."

He groaned and picked up the receiver.

"What is it?"

"It's Spike."

"He's back?" He asked, letting hope seep through.

"Well yeah, but he's not looking too good."

"Where is he? Is he alright?"

"You should come and see. The security guards are having a little trouble."

"Where, Harmony?"

"In front."

"In front of what?"

"Me, silly."

He growled but decided she wasn't worth getting upset over.

"Fine. I'll be right there."

"Right boss."

He slammed down the phone and ran down the hall, passing a few—more than irritated—employees ranting over a crazy guy in the lobby.

He was going to kill him. Torture him for a few days, and then leave him in the sun to burn. That'll teach him to make his sire worry.

All thoughts of murderous rage dissipated once he saw the younger vampire. Clearly drunk, he was swearing rather loudly, while knocking out the occasional security officer who dared to get close. His words were slurred together in a random jumbled order, not making much sense.

Angel slowly edged forward, hoping to slip by him unnoticed. In his intoxicated state, the blond didn't sense him until he was trapped in a headlock.

He struggled, taking Angel by surprise with an elbow to his jaw. But the alcohol impaired his movement significantly and he was shoved into the wall. The bottle he hadn't realized he'd been holding crashed to the floor.

"Oi! That was me beer!" Spike didn't bother to fight back, just slumped in a pile on the floor, unconscious.

Angel, trying to hide a smirk, picked up his childe and carried him through the gathering crowd to his suite.

In the light he saw the bruises across his face and the few small cuts already healing. His knuckles were raw and bloody. He must've been in a fight. Least he was still alive—undead.

Taking about the task to undress him and bandage any injuries for the second time in a week, Angel noticed the return of his precious duster. What had happened to that thing anyway?

He realized he'd missed it. Made Spike...Spike. Although he still didn't agree with the method of acquisition his childe had chosen.

His ribs retained the most damage. Broken again. Once binded—which would be undoubtedly removed too soon—he laid Spike in the bed and set upon watching over him until he woke.

Chapter 6. Part 2.

Wherever he was, it was warm. And soft. And right. Happy. Content.

He delayed opening his eyes for as long as possible, fearing it might've been a dream. But curiosity got the better of him and he slowly cracked one eye.

It wasn't a dream. He was in Angel's room. In his bed. Oh bloody buggering fuck, not again.

He glanced around, searching for the ponce. Lounging in the armchair to the left of the bed, he looked to be asleep.

Spike tried to get up and make a stealthy exit, but in the process of moving, he hit his skull on the headboard of the bed and spouted out a loud string of curses.

Angel looked up, startled, and moved to help balance his childe, but was pushed away.

"Don't need your help you stupid wanker." His head was pounding and the world was blurred, making colorful blobs of paint smeared over the canvas. He swore a few more times and stumbled into the bathroom, puking his guts out.

Must've drunk a little more than previously thought. Hard to tell with a concussion where the limit is. Even vampire healing couldn't account for the alcohol he knocked back. And judging from the hot pain generating from his ribs, the injuries from the fight hadn't healed either.

A cool hand rested on his bare back.

"You drank too much."

"Really? 'Cause I thought it was just the birthday cake, Angelus. Sodding ponce. Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"You're my childe. My responsibility. It's my job."

"Well you're fired."

Angel dragged him into the main room, throwing him his clothes. Face as hard as stone, not letting any emotion through, no matter how strong.

Spike has always been jealous of that. His face always betrayed him, showing every thought, every feeling, plain as day.

"You need a shower."

"I'll get one later." He pulled on his newly found duster and tried to hide his limp and stagger as he walked towards the door, hoping to escape without incident. Didn't feel like getting into another fight, because if Angel yelled at him for one fucking thing, that was what was going to happen.

"Where've you been staying?"

He paused. Not the harsh scolding he'd been expecting. "Around. Never really got a room."

That had stung. Not being offered a room in his Sire's own law firm. Most nights he crashed on a random couch in the building. Unless he wasn't kicked out of the bar.

Angel sighed. His shoulders were slumped in what would've been labeled as guilt if the blond didn't know better. Pity is what it was. Shame that his childe had turned out to be nothing but a poor, pathetic tosser, trying to pass as a human.

"Here." A shiny metallic object was thrown towards him. Without thinking, Spike snatched out of the air with supernatural ease. A key.

"527? That's right next door." Oh, that sly bastard.

"Yeah."

He left without thanks and walked the few feet to his new place. He knew a good deal when he saw one.

He opened the door. The room was almost a carbon copy of his sire's. Same bed, same kitchen, same table, same bloody color. Gonna have to change that.

There were a few minute differences he noticed as he opened the fridge, finding beer, blood, and frozen onion rings. The place was nice actually. Wasn't anticipating that. Guess he underestimated the poof.

A flat screen, Playstation, plenty of booze in different languages, and a closet full of new clothes. All his size, he noted, chugging down packets of nauseating pig's blood, and all in black. Damn, he just might have to apologize.

He spent the rest of the day sleeping, drifting throughout the night. Bed was a hell of a lot better than the sodding alley. Warm, comfy, better than the sarcophagus he put up with in Sunnyhell. Then again, everything was better than Sunnyhell.

But one thing was missing here. Buffy. The love of his life. Died for the bint. And still didn't get anything resembling love. Or gratitude. Or respect.

He had considered calling her several times, relying on the wishful thinking that things would be different. But deep in his soul, he knew she could never love him. Even with the spark. The light. They would never work. Never fit.

Deciding to end that train of thought before reaching full-on brooding, he forced himself out of bed and into the shower. The hot water cascaded down his sinewy body, still bearing some scars. He leaned heavily against the tile, resting on his forearms. He stayed in that position, letting the warmth soothe his muscles, clearing his mind of everything, blank, until the water ran out, the cold bringing him out of his reverie.

Chapter 7.  
  
The next day was spent in front of the telly, recuperating with a Jack Daniels and O pos chasers.

Basically, avoiding Angel. He wanted things to be the way they used to be. Without the confusion and unannounced feelings, festering behind a rock until they suddenly popped out, making themselves glaringly obvious. Back when he was William the Bloody and his sire was Angelus. Everything was simple. Black and White. Rage and affection. Pain and love. One or the other.

Until his sire got a soul. And left them. Left him. Without saying goodbye. Without saying anything. For months, they didn't know whether he was even alive or not.

Spent weeks searching. Wearing himself thin, only to come home to harsh lashings and verbal beatings.

Darla blamed him. Said he drove Angelus away, poisoned him out of spite and jealousy. Bitch. Didn't stick around more than a week. Fumed off to her mansion in Italy or something. Not before leaving her mark.

Dru had been inconsolable. Wailing hysterically, refusing to eat or talk. Repeated her sire's name over and over, like a mantra, willing his return. As if he could hear her. After she got over the despair and shock, she was pissed. Pissed that daddy had left her. She blamed him. Said he made the stars shoot daddy, sent a light down to earth, to destroy him. Ended up throwing a lit kindling at him, along with the rest of the fireplace.

But he didn't leave. Not after that. Stayed with her, like he promised. Seemed he was the only one in the family to ever keep one. Held her shaking form, comforted her as best he could, not a single tear leaving his eyes, no matter how much they pushed.

He did cry though. Not in front of others. Alone. In his sire's old room. Relived memories, deep-rooted feelings, mourned. For the loss of a mentor. A hero. A companion. A lover.

When the news had reached them as to what really happened to Angelus, he raged. Tore the house apart. Trashed everything that belonged to the older vampire, burned it.

It wasn't enough. The deep aching, pulsating in his gut, grew stronger, threatening to overtake him.

So he took it out on the civilians. Biggest massacre in the history of France. Bigger than the various wars and battles fought there. Towns decimated, rivers tinted red, women and children hung on the walls, spikes driven through their heads. Unknowingly created a name for himself. William the Bloody.

What people don't know—not even the fancy Watcher's Council—is Angel came back. Returned maybe ten years after his ensouling.

His sire tried to talk to him, tried to make amends. He wouldn't hear it though. There was no way the sod was going to apologize for leaving him. When he promised he never would. Promised he would never break that promise.

They argued, throwing insults back and forth. Both needing to vent, expel all the frustration mounting over the years.

(("You left me! Left the family! When you swore you never would!"))

(("Was it all just a lie? Huh? Did you lie when you told me you loved me? When you said you would die for me?"))

("Will, please listen te—""My name isn't Will!"))

He had lost the right to that name. It had died when he left. Abandoned.

A new name was created out of necessity. The need to be someone other than the weak fledge, living with the dream of a sire. To be strong, different. Dominant.

Spike. Has a certain ring to it. Sharp and vicious at one end, blunt and smooth on the other. Black and White.

He felt a little guilty at treating his sire so harshly. If he had known what it was like having a soul, he would've let up a little. Not yelled. Would've accepted Angel's apology. If he had, maybe the last century would've looked a bit less like hell.

The phone rang. It was past four o'clock, the time of their weekly board meeting. He decided he would not attend early in the day. Didn't want to deal with the humans, or his sire.

"What?"

"Spike? Did you forget about the board meeting?"

"No, I didn't"

"Then why aren't you here?"

"Didn't want to get off my ass just to listen to your dull voice drone on about the mission and all that rot. Plus, Passions was on. Not gonna miss the season finale for you and your lot of wankers." Complete lie.

"The meeting involves all staff, including you. You have to be here."

"Desperate to remind me who I belong to, eh Peaches?"

"Spike. Just get out here."

"Make me."

"Don't tempt me. I expect you here in a minute."

"You can't possib—"The fucking bastard hung up on him!

He took especially long getting to the meeting, ensuring pissing off of his sire and taking the time to sulk. Also took a side trip to the bar.

Fred, Gunn, Wesley, Lorne and Angel were sitting around the table, looking incredibly bored. Except for Angel. He just looked incredibly pissed. Good.

The blond leaned against the farthest wall, opposite the older vampire. Everyone was staring at him, and he fidgeted, searching for something to keep his hands busy.

"Well? Stop staring like I'm a bloody zoo animal and get on with it," he complained, lighting a cigarette. Angel refrained from commenting, but was planning to later by the sour expression on his face.

"Now that we're all here, I want an update on the Pères de Tomes."

Fred spoke first. "I haven't been able to find much, except a few scattered dates pertaining to various massacres in Western Europe. Like in 1645 they torched twelve towns across the European continent and in 1739 four religious leaders were found in West Germany, hung by their feet in a barn with apparent neck trauma. They took credit for the attacks. Almost like an early version of terror groups."

"That was the extent of our research. The Pères de Tomes are considered a legend by many of the online and text demonology sources. I'm afraid finding information will be a great deal harder than previous thought."

"Great. Just Great."

"And in more bad news, we didn't have much luck either, Angelcakes."

"Yeah, even the big kitty had nothin to say."

Angel stared at his folded hands, scowling. Bloody ponce.

"Not all hope is lost, right? I mean we still have this." Fred pulled a large, dusty book from her bag.

"Yes, but unless we can find someone who reads and can fully comprehend H'kswark, I'm afraid it's of no use to us."

"Lemme see that." Spike moved from his spot, pulling the book towards himself and leaning it against his knee.

"Be careful with that! It's a rare ancient text containing an extinct demon language. Replacing it would be impossible."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Watcher." He studied the book, taunting Wes with his cigarette hovering dangerously close to the pages. "Seems our friends worship a god called...Diathaus...who is the bringer of darkness, keeper of time, beholder of the humans, blah blah blah. Bunch of nonsense this is."

"Since when can you read H'kswark?" Wes asked.

He looked up to find ten pairs of eyes staring at him.

"Oh...uh, Angelus had me be the...translator of sorts. Ya' know, communicate with warlocks, save his ass, curse at them, that sort of stuff. 'Member Angelus?" He asked, a small smirk on his face.

Angel tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. His eyes twinkled with remembrance.

Spike always had a knack for languages. Could remember anything. Photographic memory and all. A blessing and a curse. The good as well as the bad seared into his mind.

His linguistic skills weren't always up to par, though. Got them in trouble more than once. Called a Fyoral demon a "Fucking asshole with no sense of fashion" and a Y'nnad from Russia "a bloody ponce who smells like a cow's ass", which got them all covered in a sticky green substance that smelled like ammonia. Angel suspected miscommunications weren't always an accident.

"Spike. You think you can translate that thing for us?"

The poof must be crazy. He glanced skeptically at the book and furrowed his brows, looking up through chocolate lashes at his sire.

"This whole thing? Bollocks."

He ran a hand through his hair, contemplating the 300 plus page volume sitting in front of him.

"Fine. But don't say I never did anything for ya."

Angel smiled thankfully at the blond, holding his gaze. Assuming the meeting was over everyone started to leave.

"Hey kids, I have an idea," the green demon spoke up. "Spikelicious here can sing for me. Maybe I can get a read on him. Some clues on the Pères de Tomes."

Everyone nodded in agreement.

"Wait a minute. I'm not gonna sing. No bloody way am I gonna sing."

"It's the best chance we have." Fred said.

"Yes, don't you want to find them? Put an end to their evil plans?" Wes said.

"No' if I haveta sing."

The others objected, in a rumble of noise, telling him to be the hero and preaching on how it couldn't be that bad.

"Angel sang," Wes said.

"Angelus sang? You sang? In public?" The peroxide vampire laughed, stammering insults at the older vampire between gasps of breath.

"Yes, I sang. Don't see why it's so funny."

"You...you...s-sang...in...in..."

Angel waited for him to stop, tapping his fingers impatiently on the table.

"Are you done?"

"Yeah. S-sure mate." He managed to stop, a leer still plastered on his face.

"So, the karaoke open mic night is Saturday at Caritas. I'll see you there."

"Oh no you won't."

"Spike, we need you to do this."

"I'm already translating your pissing book, I'm no' gonna get up in front of people and sing."

"Please Will."

Oh now that's cheating. That was full blown unethical devious cheating. He was not going to budge. Was not going to sing. Be read like an open book. No way.

He put on his resolve face, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "No' gonna work, Peaches. You can just forget it. Now if you excuse me, I have the bloody Encyclopedia Britannica to translate."

Everyone grudgingly left, including Angel to his surprise. Without a word. Just got up and left, his face closed.

The blond sat heavily in the chair and opened to the first page. This was going to take his entire unlife.


	5. Chapter 8 and 9

Chapter 8. Part 1.

It had only taken two hours, 67 pages, one migraine, and five pills of something that smelled like a combination of morphine and caffeine (hadn't looked at the label on account of his eyes hurting like hell) to discourage him and force him to abandon the assignment. Never was one for menial tasks. There was nothing important in the sodding book. Just an arrogant minion blathering on about his great almighty god.

His head was pounding, and he found himself succumbing to the infuriating habit of pinching the bridge of your nose, the way all watchers do. That had been enough to drive him mad, intensifying the need to beat something up.

He relied on the foggy remembrance of his nights as a ghost, wandering the building aimlessly, to find the training room.

The last two hours were spent lifting weights and pummeling the shit out of the punching bag. Mostly the latter.

And waiting for his anal-retentive sire to punish him for not working on his project. Not everyone can be as OCD as him. Time he realizes that.

A whiff of hair gel and corporate cologne (cologne?) wafted through the large fishbowl shaped room. Spike's back tensed and his hands fell to his sides. He faced Angel, a smug smirk on his face, like an inside joke.

The dark haired vampire slid out of his jacket, dropping it carelessly to the floor. He unbuttoned the top three buttons of the red silk shirt, rolling up the sleeves. Probably Prada. Pillock.

"Here to beat me for not doing my homework? Teach me a lesson?"

"Something like that."

He laughed, swaggering over towards him. "Think you could take me Angelus?"

They stood face-to-face, staring each other down. Spike grinned, already vamped out, fangs exposed. His muscles tensed, demon wrenching relentlessly at the chain.

"A little toss and tumble?"

He shoved the dark haired vampire backwards into the wall.

"A tad slow don't ya' think, old man?" He taunted Angel, bouncing from foot to foot. 'Bout time the nancy boy put up. Always boastin' on how he was the strongest, the toughest, fastest...

The older vampire jumped up, sweeping Spike's legs from underneath him. He straddled the blond, berating him with consecutive blows to his face and chest.

He managed to catch his sire's large fist with his left hand and swung with his right, connecting with the larger man's nose. The scent of blood was enticing, drawing the demons out to play, releasing the chain.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, he bucked Angel off and scrambled to his feet. Before he had his balance, the dark haired vampire shot forward with a left jab, but he blocked it, driving his knee into his sire's gut and followed with a swift chop to his back.

The older vampire recovered quickly and landed a roundhouse kick to the blonde's sternum. He stumbled backwards, gripping the wall for support.

Spike leapt at his sire, snarling, but Angel dodged to the left, sending him head first into the floor. He easily caught himself and rolled to his feet, in a swirl of black leather.

They traded blows in perfect sync. Each working to complete a full pattern already mapped out in their minds, effortlessly matching the other's moves.

Spike got a good hit on his sire's jaw, splitting his lip. He tried for another but Angel feigned left and punched his side, still slightly bruised. The pain was diluted with the rush of adrenaline flowing through his system. Fighting with his sire, experiencing how absolute it felt, always did that to him. Sent a tingling energy buzzed through him. Like a lighter setting his nerves on fire. He assumed Angel felt the same.

A sharp pain zipped through his forehead. The world dimmed and suddenly he found himself on the flat of his back, staring up at his sire towering above.

Both were panting, chests heaving from the exertion. He tried to say something but it became lost in the silence, drifting away when the syllables met his lips.

They stared at each other. Warm brown eyes melting into him, Spike had trouble finding his bearings. He noticed Angel was unguarded, not paying attention to his opponent, with a dazed expression in his eyes. Not at all like him.

Spike kicked his sire's shin, sending the older vampire to one leg. He pushed off the mat and thrusted his knee into Angel's temple, stunning him at least for a few seconds.

When the dark haired vampire didn't move he became a little concerned. Normally he would have a few of his broken bones by now for disrespecting his sire and challenging him to a fight. Would normally be drained dry by now. For showing insolence. Audacity. Control.

((Dominance))

He lowered his fists, wiping the blood from his nose on his sleeve. He glanced around him, confirming no one else was around. He willed his body to move closer, against all instincts to flee.

Angel was still on one knee. Head cradled in his hands, his sire didn't moving.

He reached a hand out warily towards his sire's shoulder and cleared his throat.

"Angelus? You okay?"

Fingertips hovered dangerously close to him, trembling slightly above his smooth silk shirt. As much as he loathed admitting it, wisps of fear gripped him, visibly shaking him.

Just as he was about to touch the vampire, he was thrown into the wall, his sire's weight pressed against him.

Cool lips met his and hands roamed across his body, gliding over smooth skin. He purred and slid his hands under the other man's shirt, desperate for contact. The hard muscles under his fingers rippled and contracted, trying to pull his duster off.

Not breaking the kiss, the leather fell to the floor. Angel pinned his shoulders to the wall, nipping at the soft sensitive skin over his jugular.

A surge of panic pumped through him, gripping his heart.

"No, no," he cried out, weakly at first but gaining strength. The blond pushed Angel away and stalked across the room, scrubbing his hands through his disheveled hair and muttering under his breath.

"Spike? What's wrong?"

He felt the older vampire's presence approach behind him menacingly. Flashes of death and blood and destruction blinked before his eyes. Like changing the channels on the TV too fast.

Angelus appeared. The same hostile leer plastered on his face. He stood in the corner of a dark room, the moonlight making the smoke from his cigar incandescent. Yellow eyes gleamed through the blue-gray plume. Full of anger. Disdain. Hunger.

Another image appeared, disappearing just as quickly. A glimpse of dirt soaked dark with blood. If he concentrated enough, Spike could make out the smell of burnt rubber. Like a fucking scratch and sniff.

"What? Spike...isn't this what you wanted?"

The older vampire moved closer but he stumbled back, wrapping his arms around himself, making him look as small as possible.

He shook his head.

The hurt in Angel's eyes showed clearly. "Spike, I thought...I mean..."

The blond shook his head again, not moving his clouded eyes from the fixed spot on the floor.

"Will?"

The name elicited a response, a twinge of familiarity, of the instilled dominance he detested so much. The younger vampire's sapphire eyes flickered to Angel's.

"Will. What's wrong?"

He said nothing, just stared into his sire's warm eyes.

Swallowing hard, Angel crept towards him. The panicked vibe given off by his childe flared as he got closer. The best approach would be slow and calm. No swift movements and harsh noises.

"William. You can tell me. I won't hurt you, I promise."

His sire always made promises he didn't intend to keep. So why should this one be any different? The sincerity in his voice was meant to be misleading.

The confusion showed clearly on the other man's face. Did he think he could pull that again? Pretend to be the hurt lost puppy? Or did he truly not know how to handle the situation?

"I can't do this, Angelus. Not again. Not that way."

"What way?"

"The old way. No' enough...enough control...gonna loose control and, and that wouldn't be proper. Wouldn't be good."

"Why wouldn't it be good?"

"Oh, Get off it you stupid sod! You know how it was. When we were together. Death and destruction. Got a new shiny soul now. Not that easy any more. Can't risk it." He squeezed himself tighter. Feeling small and insecure in the towering shadow of his sire that was inching towards him slowly, as if he wouldn't notice.

"I won't hurt you. I won't take any power, all right? Trust me Will."

Trust him? Did he hear what he just said? There was no way he would ever trust his sire. Not after what they had been through. Together.

He trusted him at one time of course. Even chained to the wall, flogged and bloodied, he trusted the vampire.

Chapter 8. Part 2.

Angel inched forward, trying to hold eye contact with the blond. He reeked of fear and uncertainty. It rolled off him, the air thick with it.

He wasn't trying to hurt him. Never would. At least, not until recently. He thought the trust between them had grown. Thought that the night they spent together represented that. Apparently not.

The younger vampire shied away from his every move, no trace of the arrogant cocky swearing master vampire.

He was staring at the floor, whimpered occasionally, eyes flickering gold.

Spike didn't act like that. Spike was balls to the walls, always ready for action. But then again, Spike isn't real. Never really was. Even without the soul. It was always a defense mechanism, created to deflect pain and appear strong. To not be vulnerable. To have power.

What changed? Why didn't he have power?

The Pères de Tomes. They hurt him. Hurt Spike. Took it all away. And left only William. Skewered to the floor not able to move or defend himself, he was powerless.

Angel reeled at what he concluded, mentally berating himself for not thinking of it earlier. Spike doesn't submit. William might, but not Spike. He should have known that. Hardly enough trust linking them to allow for such measures built solely around dependence. And the events of the previous day didn't help either. Thought sex would help, make the trust stronger. Fucking wrong he was. To coin a popular Sunnydale phrase, Duh.

"William?" he asked, rethinking how to approach the situation.

Spike glanced up through a curtain of dark brown eyelashes.

Making sure the younger vampire was watching him; Angel laid down on the floor, hands clasped above his head.

"Come here." He said, trying to control his demon, which refused to submit to anyone, much less his own childe.

A hesitant look passed over Spike's face. He didn't move, but raised his head, meeting Angel's gaze full on.

"Please."

Without protest, the blond ambled towards his sire. He growled slightly, which Angel took as good sign, a sign of the old Spike.

He felt him crawl over top him, his breath against his cheek. Bright crystal blue eyes searched his. Hoping for honesty and genuineness.

Angel relaxed, deciding he had done the right thing. His lips were captured in a soft, tender kiss, lasting far too long for any human to endure. He kept his hands stretched above his head, allowing Spike to take control. For the first time.

He moaned as soft lips brushed the sensitive skin of his neck. Spike trailed his tongue along the older vampire's jugular, inhaling the aroma of stolen blood just out of reach.

Angel felt his childe's nimble fingers glide across his shoulders, traveling down his chest. The blonde's leg slid between his, glancing against his hardness.

He moved his attack lower, sucking and nipping at smooth skin. The older vampire's throbbing cock made itself known.

Angel growled softly and unconsciously shifted into game face. Spike's tongue drew circles around his shaft, making the air feel colder, and if it was possible, his cock grow harder. The older vampire moaned, urging the younger to continue, begging.

Spike sucked gently against the velvety skin, kissing the head, and running the pads of his fingers along the line of his sire's pelvic bone. He knew Angel was about to come, but suddenly stopped, pulling away and crawling on top of his sire again.

Their faces were centimeters apart, both panting. Angel purred, nuzzling his childe's neck. He nudged his nose under Spike's chin and ran his tongue along his jaw.

The blond gripped his sire's shoulders and using his weight as momentum, flipped them over.

Angel's weight felt good over him, familiar.

Their eyes met. "Sire." A simple word.

Spike stretched his arms above his head, his left hand encircling his right wrist. A slow smile spread across both their faces, mutual understanding connecting them. Trust linking them.

Chapter 9. Part 1.

He turned the water on as hot as the dial would allow and stripped out of the blood soaked costume. Steam began to billow and gently roll out of the blistering shower, creating a foggy haze that filled the bathroom within minutes. Spike let the searing hot water cascade over his tired body.

Fighting a prehistoric demon the drive of a dog in heat took more effort than he was prepared to give. He hadn't had much help either. Angel had given him two humans—Wussley and the pansy lawyer—as back up. Right, that would help. Needless to say they were out before the fight even began.

The demon (name sounded like something read straight from the Torah, did that make it Jewish?) had tried to escape on the rooftops. By the time it jumped two buildings, Wes and Gunn had barely made it up the ladder. That left him as the only thing able to stop it (apparently the Jewish demons didn't have a gender) and prevent it from killing even more civilians.

He didn't give a hot fuck whether the demon got away or not. The white hats had all decided that he would be the champion and save the day, without consulting him. Then they woke him up. A vampire needs his sleep. A cranky bloodsucker is something no one wants to deal with. They forget that in order to save the day, he actually has to be awake, which means the only time to sleep is in the night.

Obviously, whoever coined the term to 'save the day' wasn't a creature of the night. The day is not for vampires. The day could go to hell for all he cared. With the blistering sun that'll deep-fry you in milliseconds and the annoying little kids with their puppy dogs and lollipops; he couldn't understand why anyone would want to save that. The night was much better.

So he was out to save the night. Not the people, or the day. Nor to please his sire and his groupies. For the night.

He leapt the gaps easier and quicker than the bottom heavy demon and caught it within about a dozen buildings. The ensuing fight was what he existed for. Brutal and violent and sadistic. Just the way he liked them. Course, he could do without the cinderblocks. Having four consecutively lobbed at you, pummeling you into the equally solid cement was not his idea of fun.

But he got the wanker back. Stabbed his fucking guts out. Also discovered the anatomy of the Jewish demon includes big fucking arteries that can spurt blood at a distance of nearly twenty feet. Then just for good measure—he decapitated the bugger. Was the most fun he'd had in a while.

He watched the pink tinged water run down the drain, most of the blood not belonging to him. Though he did take a few good shots, they were superficial and healed even before he got back to the evil law firm.

Spike leaned his forearms against the blue tiled wall and relaxed under the revitalizing stream of water. He stood there until the heater gave out and shot cold water from the showerhead.

He reluctantly climbed out of the shower and toweled himself off. With closer inspection, the creamy white towels had a gold fancy script "A" embroidered onto either side. He couldn't help but chuckle. Narcissistic much?

Muffled voices came from the hall, growing louder and becoming clearer. The loudest was obviously his sire, sounded mighty pissed too. Two more joined him: a softer female and a calm male's with a British accent. Fred and Wes.

"Bloody hell," Spike muttered under his breath. With only a towel around his waist, he went to inspect. As soon as he opened the door, he was greeted by Angel's fist.

Spike staggered but kept on his feet. "What the fuck was that for?"

Angel barged into the room. His eyes were yellow and dangerously close to switching to game face. The vein on his forehead was twitching, meaning he was about to bash heads in. He dragged a sword by his side, shouting curses and pacing the floor.

"I'll tell you what that was for, Spike!" He spat the name with venom. "That was for ruining my—my—sword." He shoved the hunk of metal in Spike's face. It had intricate designs depicting dragons and knights carved in the wooden handle and indecipherable scribblings embossed in the blade. Course, they were no longer visible, as it was now coated in dried rusty colored demon blood.

"Calm down, mate. It's only a bloody sword. I'll get you a new one."

Angel stared blankly at the peroxide blonde for a few seconds before lunging and pinning him against the open door.

"It wasn't just a bloody sword, mate. It was my sword, my sword that I've had for well over two centuries." Angel snarled, face centimeters from his. His sire's hand clamped tightly around his throat. Even without the need to breathe, it wasn't terribly comfortable. "You know how long two centuries are, Spike? That sword's been around since before you were even born, and somehow, in less than two hours, you manage to destroy it!"

He had slipped into demonic visage somewhere in the middle of his speech and growled loudly, squeezing even tighter.

It probably wouldn't have helped to laugh, but Spike couldn't control it. This was perfect poncey behavior. A low rumbling began somewhere deep in his chest and worked its way out until he was outright laughing. As predicted, it only worked to incense Angel's anger further.

"What's so funny, childe?"

"You. Only a nancy boy would get this upset over a ancient sodding sword." He flashed him his patent shit eating smirk.

His eyes flashed rage, but before he could act out some of his—more vivid—fantasies, Wes and Fred stepped in.

"Angel, you know, it was only a sword. We can get it fixed."

"Yes, you are the head of Wolfram and Hart. I'm sure you can conjure something up."

He fell out of game face, which Spike took as a good sign. Bruises had already begun to form where the tips of his sire's fingers dug into the delicate flesh of his neck, and he was getting the impression Angel wanted to squeeze his head off his body.

Fred placed a dainty hand on Angel's shoulder. "Angel, stop this, let him go."

"Watch your step, boy." He creased his Neanderthal eyebrows and gave a final growl before huffing out of the room. Leave it to him to take orders from a frail little girl.

Spike ran his hand over his neck, finding five particularly sore areas. "Bloody wanker," he muttered. "What crawled up his ass anyway?"

"There were plenty of other weapons you could've used."

"But I wanted that one. Not scared of the pansy. Can threaten me all he wants, nothin' the big bad can't handle."

"Right. Me and Fred will just be going then." They moved to shut the door, but before pulling it closed Wes said, "And Spike, watch the towel."

He heard Fred giggle and he glanced down, to find the towel had slipped dangerously low during their toss and tumble. Bloody Hell.

Chapter 9. Part 2.

Aries sat in his thrown and picked impatiently at his fingernails. Going to have to get some clippers or something. He liked to keep up with the latest trends, and according to the glossy magazines, metro was in. Had to look pretty to lure in the ripe young women—and men.

Would need to get this place updated too. He glanced around the warehouse disparagingly. Large rafters draped in cobwebs ran horizontally across the length of the building. Bare light bulbs hung from the deteriorating ceiling (must've been acid rain, really people should take better care of the planet) casting dim circles of light on the hard cement floor. The walls were his favorite part. Sheet metal covered in rust. They had a certain industrial-minimalist quality to them.

"Master." A scrawny fledge approached his thrown and bowed before his feet. It was great being ruler. Would be even better once those pesky humans are out of the way.

"You may speak."

"We have accomplished the task you asked of us, master."

"And which one was that?"

"Disposing of the bodies," He paused for a second before adding hastily "master."

"Excellent." The smell of rotting flesh and decay still lingered, despite the 'clean up', which was basically dumping all of the bodies into the bay. Blood still stained the floor. Two minions were working on that as they spoke.

"What do you wish of us next, master?"

"The warlocks have already completed their task. You are free to do as you please for the rest of the day." Aries took a drink of the chalice of blood sitting on the wooden box next to him. Would have to get rid of that too. Maybe one of those fancy end tables made of glass. With a Victorian-gothic silver base and maybe even one of those—

"If you don't mind me asking, master, when exactly are we going to bring Diathaus into the world. It has been several months and the ranks are getting anxious...master."

"All in good time. Once we get Spike, everything will be in order."

"Spike? But why him? There are plenty of other vampires, surely we could—"

"No. We need Spike. Or need I remind you that he was responsible for the massacre in 1897?" Insolent fledge. No one killed his clan and got away with it. He was going to make Spike pay for what he did. And in the process send the world into complete chaos not unlike hell, or one of its sub-dimensions. Kill two birds with one stone. Very efficient.

"No, you don't, master."

"Plus, he's the only master vampire in this area. Besides me of course. Our numbers have become increasingly low over the past few years. It would be hard to find a replacement in such a short amount of time."

At one time, the Pères de Tomes ruled the world—or the less stable regions of Europe, same difference. He had only been a faceless minion then, answering to nearly everyone else. But now, now he was at the top of the pile. Over the decades the leaders and elders were wiped out. He worked himself up the chain of command quickly and is the youngest elder ever to be the head of the clan. An accomplishment he's rather proud of.

"What of his sire, master?"

"What of him? He let his humanity consume him. Take over the demon. Course, that will all be changed in time. No, he's not what I want."

"Changed, master?"

"The warlocks. I came up with a magnificent little ditty that can give the demon control. Makes your work a lot easier."

"Take away his soul?"

"No, no. Angelus cares just as much for Spike as Angel does. He would get in our way. No, this spell diminishes his humanity, leaving only the demon. Rather flawless if you ask me."

"Yes, flawless, master."

Aries smiled smugly and took another gulp of the blood. "Now go on. But, keep a low profile will you? Don't want our plan ruined by any unnecessary complications. Or it will be your head, understand?"

The minion nodded frantically. He gave another bow before scurrying away.

Now about the nail clippers, he heard there were some cheap ones at Target, but that seemed too tacky. Maybe Wal-Mart would...


	6. Chapter 10

Chapter 10. Part 1.

It'd been a few hours since Angel's latest tiff. Normally he would chock it up to moody soulfullness, but Spike had a sinking feeling that wasn't the problem.

Something wasn't right with the poofter. Angel never bared his fangs in front of his group of pansies. Or stood with his weight on his right foot. He tended to keep his arms free when he walked, not in his pockets or clasped behind him for fear of the need for a quick offence. Also, he was humming. As if there wasn't a world full of people he sinned and needed to atone to. As if it was a good day. Angel never had good days. He had okay days and horrible days. Never good days. And Barry whatever is not acceptable humming material for a blood-sucking vampire.

It could've been just him. Maybe he hates him. Maybe he wants to 'break-up' whatever they had. Maybe he wasn't good enough.

Or maybe it was just a William-induced over active analytic view that was bringing these doubts to his head. No, not doubts, thoughts. He wouldn't doubt Angel. Angel was his stone. Always constant, always there. Even trapped in Sunnydale, he knew he could always turn to Angel for help.

Whatever it was, Spike didn't like it. The ponce took it upon himself to criticize every thing and make decisions for the whole group, without consulting anyone.

If things kept up this way, there was going to be a confrontation. He tried the sensitive patient approach, which only got him walked all over, now he was going to do this the William the Bloody way. Not gonna sit back and let his sire control him. He was William the Bloody; scrounge of Europe and slayer of slayers, who didn't take no shit from nobody.

Spike finished another shot of vodka and turned off the record player (stolen of course) blasting Sex Pistols loudly. What happened to music? It used to be raw, rock n roll, sex, drugs, and booze. Now its 'I'm so sad I'm going to go kill myself'. He blames it on Nirvana.

"Sodding pansies if you ask me," he muttered to himself as he pulled on his worn Doc Martins and headed for the conference room. First time in days they had a meeting. Guess things settled down, less apocalypses, more time to argue and tear the team apart. He hadn't seen more than two of them white hats in one room yet.

Spike sang softly under his breath as he strutted into the room and sat noisily in the farthest chair. "I've seen you in the mirror when the story began. Yeah I fell in love with you, I love your mortal sin..." He leaned back and threw his feet on the table, crossing his ankles and smirking cheekily at the occupants.

"So, where's the nancy boy?"

"He's not here yet."

"Yeah, good thing too. I'm gonna tear him to pieces the next time I see him." Gunn began pacing again. His fists were clenched firm at his side and his jaw muscles were tight. If Dawn were here, she would tell him to "take a chill pill."

"Anyone got some chow? I'm starving."

The room looked at him oddly. "You're a vampire."

"Well gee golly gosh, really? I know what I am Weasley. Sorry to break it to you, Peaches isn't the model vampire. I can eat what I want."

"But it has no nutritional value to you. There's no blood in it.

"Bloody hell. I just want a pissing bag of chips. It's fun. It tastes good. Now move it along, hungry vampire here."

"Fine. Go down the hall to the vending machine."

"Costs seventy-five, love." Fred pulled another quarter from her pocket and sent him on his way. Agreeable girl. How'd she get stuck with a prick like Wesley?

Hot Cheetos successfully retrieved, he returned to the room, to find Angel had arrived. Gunn and Angel stood face to face, the room brimming with male testosterone. Wes and Fred seemed unsure of what to do and stood off to the side watching nervously.

"I'm the boss, what I say goes."

"You gave kids to an evil demon for dinner!"

"I didn't give them to him, I made an agreement with him. It was a necessary executive decision."

Spike took his place exactly as he was before and popped a handful of cheetos in his mouth. The loud crunching wasn't essential, but he liked the effect.

"Shut up Spike!" Gunn and Angel yelled loudly at once. His response was another loud crack.

"It was my case, and my decision! You did not have the right to take my case!"

"I have the right to do whatever I want, end of discussion." Angel shouldered past Gunn. He busied himself with organizing piles of paper on his desk.

"How does it feel Angel? Having the blood of three innocent helpless kids on your soul? Or lack thereof?"

"Gunn, stop it." Fred, always the peacemaker, stepped in. "Come on, let's go."

"Listen to her. It'll save me the time of shoving some balls up your ass."

"What did you say?"

"I said you have no balls. Do you need me to repeat it again?" Ooh, that was good. Gunn looked as if he was ready to throw a punch.

"Angel, that was uncalled for."

"No it wasn't. The decision had to be made. You would have taken the easy way out like always."

"You killed them."

"No, the demon did, not me. He would have killed all of us if I didn't."

"Then we could have stopped him." Gunn gritted from clenched teeth. He had to admire the guys self control.

"You obviously never have faced a Gonclaczk, have you? Ever seen one in your little picture books Wes? Nasty things. Like destruction and mayhem. Oh, and did I mention, incinerating flesh in the blink of an eye??"

"So you sacrificed them to save your sorry ass? Doesn't sound like a champion to me."

They were once again nose-to-nose. Gunn was obviously fuming mad. But Angel seemed more amused than anything. "We could never have taken him. Trust me."

"Trust you. Right. No one here trusts you."

"That may be so, but I'm in control and I can easily throw you out on your asses. You've never had it so good before here."

"We could manage."

"Like to test that?" No one responded, just shifted uncomfortably and diverted their eyes.

Spike rather enjoyed watching the white hats fight, but now the team was falling apart before his eyes and for some reason he felt compelled to stop the self-destruct.

"Oh, get off it. Who are you fooling? Alone you're just weak, powerless humans, unable to find a sodding vampire in the middle of a sodding cemetery," he stood and started pacing, lighting a cigarette in the process. "Think you could stop an apocalypse alone, Charley? Or how about you Angelus? You're just as bad as the rest of them. Depending on their trust and compassion, letting emotions get in the way. None of you could survive without each other, so stop the bloody arguing and do something good and jolly."

Everyone stared at him in silence.

"That was my case!"

"I did what I had to."

"They didn't need to die. We could have done..."

Spike sighed and scratched his scarred eyebrow. Fred shot him a helpless look as he huffed out of the room

Chapter 10. Part 2.

Okay, that was it. He was going to have this out with him once and for all. Not gonna stand for it no more. This was the last straw.

Spike paced circles around the brown leather armchair in the middle of his room. He cursed occasionally and hurled the nearest objects at the wall. The latest unfortunate was a Tiffany lamp with pretty pink stained glass. Something nibblet would love.

Cutting off the only supply of alcohol within a ten-mile radius was absolutely unacceptable! He could not believe his sire would do that. And for what? A brand new shiny playroom? Not worth it. Not even close.

The old training room was plenty big enough. No need to tear down the bar, just to accommodate his greatness. Besides, no room was bug enough for the poof's hairstyle. Like the bloody Eiffel Tower it was.

He was not gonna allow this atrocity to occur.

Spike polished off his Black Death vodka and went over his speech in his head. Going to tell the tosser what's what and who's who. Tell him that he cannot take away the bar and that the latest power trip has to end. Tell him he needs to show more respect to him and reciprocate some more feelings or the deal's off.

God, he sounded like such a nancy-boy. Couldn't say all that. Not unless he was runnin for Miss America. He could say that he better not demolish the booze or there will be some serious pain in his future.

Nah, too Terminator. I'll be back. That wouldn't do either.

"Fuck," he swore. When did this relationship thing become so bloody complicated? All he wanted was a nice fuck now and then, maybe a thank you and a kiss on the cheek. No, scratch that. All he wanted was Buffy. But that's out of the question now. Heard from the poof the other day that she hooked up with the Immortal. Guess she moved on without him.

He pushed all soulful broodiness aside and concentrated on the task ahead: confronting Angel. Shouldn't be too hard, done it plenty of times in the past, why would no be any different?

He slid into his duster and was about to take a swig of beer, when he remembered it was empty. Can't do this dry. Spike pulled out a small wooden box from under the couch and lifted the lid open. After some debate he selected which to use.

The lines laid out on the table, he snorted both and carefully hid the box again. Not enough to have much effect on Vampire healing, but it'll get him by. Just a little confidence booster.

Feeling a little better, he purposefully strode out of the room. Angel wasn't in his room or his office. Checked both twice. Where would a crazy egotistical souled vampire hide?

"Harmony! Have you seen tall, dark, and broody-yet-slightly-off-his-rocker?" He caught her as she hurried by. "Confused metro sexual?"

"Oh, you mean Angel."

"No, the gingerbread man. Yes, Harm, do you know where he is?"

"Har, har. Well, last time I saw him he was in the weapons room. No, actually the last time I saw him was yesterday in his office—or was it the bathroom?—I don't remember, it might have been in the hallway outside the lab but—"

"Harmony, for bloodys sake, where is he?"

"Check the weapon's room."

Spike sighed heavily and refrained from knocking the bint on her ass. Intolerable. Why did Angel—no maybe it was Wes—ever hire her? Wasn't like she was particularly good at her job or anything.

Angel was where she said he was. Standing in the middle of the red and brown, lavishly decorated room, staring at the cabinet full of instruments of which to cause pain.

"Angel, we need to talk, right now. And by we, I mean I talk, you listen. Now who the hell do you think you are? The emperor of France? What makes you think you can take the bar away in place of a stupid, sodding training room. We already have one, or don't you remember? Down the hall? Looks kinda like a fishbowl? Now, I don't see anything wrong with—"

"Gear up, we got a mission," Angel interrupted and tossed a dagger at Spike, who caught it easily.

"Oh no, we're gonna suss this out right here. I'm not gonna let you change the subject."

"That's great. Let's go." He brushed right passed him and got into the elevator at the end of the hall, swinging a heavy axe in his hands.

He looked distastefully at the small dagger Angel had given him as he chased after him. "Oi, hold up Peaches. What am I supposed to do with the likes of this? Kill a butterfly?"

"It'll come in handy, don't worry."

"Yeah, right." The elevator began it's descent. Spike eyed his sire out of the corner of his eye. Standing tall and proud, in control.

"And don't think I forgot about our talk either. As soon as this is done, we're gonna have this out."

"Okay. I agree, we should talk."

"Good. So what's the big emergency? Damsel in distress? Lost dog?"

"You'll see."

They had taken the Jag across town, through some suburbs and into the city limits. There was minimal conversating in the car, partly due to the high-strung tension, and partly due to the loud music Spike had chosen.

The Buzzcocks blasted loud enough to the shake the speakers. Angel tried to persuade him to take interest in the classics, like Bach or maybe another one of those old guys with poofy wigs that he honestly didn't give a damn about. Angel was particularly sour about the current song, Orgasm addict, but didn't complain much.

The car slid to a halt. They got out in front of a small, one-story flat. The area around it was desolate, with only small shrubs poking up from the ground. The windows were shuttered, and it seemed to Spike that the place hadn't been occupied in years.

"I don't see anything Angel." His sire wasn't surveying the area, scenting the air, or showing any sign of alertness.

He casually waltzed by him. "Don't worry, you will."

"Cut the crap Angelus. Why the fuck are we out here?" He ignored him and kept staring off into the distance, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Arrogant bastard. Won't even look at him.

Spike roughly shoved Angel backwards onto the car. "Answer me."

Angel charged Spike and held him still by the lapels of his duster. "If you would shut your yap for two goddamn seconds, you'd hear the gang of vampires noisily approaching behind you."

True enough, if he concentrated, voices and bawdy laughter could be heard coming closer. Spike growled and pushed his sire off of him. "Watch the leather, Peaches."

"Shut up. They're coming."

"I know they're coming, I'm not stupid."

"Shhhhhh," Angel scolded as he pulled Spike to his side, backs against the Jaguar.

Spike listened carefully, but heard nothing. A few crickets in the grass, sewers under the street, some Macarena music in the background, but no gang of vampires.

"I can't hear them," he whispered in Angel's ear.

"Relax." He was avoiding something. Deliberately leaving out an important detail. He could tell. Didn't know how. Always had the ability to pick out liars from the bunch. Even as a poet. Spike scowled at his sire and moved to light up a cig, but it was swatted out of his grasp.

"Oi!"

"Be quiet! It'll give us away."

"You're being louder than me."

"Am not."

"Yes you are."

"Be quiet."

"You too."

"I am"

"No, you're not, you just talked."

"Spike, shut the hell up."

"Fine, but I won't be happy with it."

"I don't care."

"Good."

"Good."

A minute of silence passed between them. Spike still couldn't detect any gang of vampires. He tried sensing them, but all he got was Angel. Wonder if you were too close to a vampire, you'd get feedback. Have to try that sometime.

"I don't know where they are." He glanced to his left to address Angel. He was gone. "Angel? Angel, where the fuck'd you go?"

A large fist crashed into his jaw, throwing his head to the side. The taste of his own blood filled his mouth. Sodding tongue. Always gets into the way.

He leaned against the roof of the car, trying to regain some sense. A cold hand grabbed onto the back of his neck and slammed his head onto the roof violently.

Before his assailant could break his nose in even more places, Spike caught the edge of the door and locked his elbows. Haha, didn't think of that did he?

Spike threw his head back and heard the satisfying crack of the other man's nose and a few teeth. He spun around, fists held up, ready to attack.

Bloody hell was the only thought that ran through his mind as a group of at least a dozen vampires charged him, fists bashing in his skull. He tried to get a few down, but every time one went down, another took his place. This can't be good.

He called out for Angel a few times, but got no reply. If he had a few seconds to worry about the sod, he would've, but he was too busy trying to stay on his feet. If he stumbled or fell, it was all over.

The dagger! What did he do with the dagger? Talking to Angel, tossing it in the car, getting yelled at, accidentally tearing leather interior, putting in his belt. Bingo! Spike made an attempt to punch with one fist and quickly fumble with the dagger with the other hand.

He slashed out wildly, hoping to slice open some guts, or maybe decapitate some fuckers. What the hell was Peaches thinking with this dinky thing? It was as big as his pinky for Christ's sake. Couldn't even hope to stab a mouse with it.

Two or three vamps went down with the assist of the dagger, but he lost it inside another's chest. The remaining ten backed away to regroup, giving Spike a chance to catch his breath (figuratively speaking).

With the clearer view, he could see Angel leaning against the would-be-white picket fence, arms crossed across his chest and cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Angel. Some assistance." He just smiled and waved cheekily at him.

What the hell was going on? Couldn't his sire see that these vampires were not normal? They were more organized than other vampires he'd come across. Much more focused. They definitely had a plan, and he had a dreadful feeling it involved him and some sharp instruments.

The group surged forward again, this time succeeding to knock him on his ass within seconds. Fists and feet were flying, all pummeling on him. He rolled up in the tightest ball he could to try and protect himself, but it didn't do much good to soften the blows.

Once he was good and still, they finally let up. He could feel his cool blood trickle down his nose and drip on the ground. Those buggers sure pack a punch. He took a mental inventory of his injuries (so far): cracked ribs, broken nose, bunch of bruises, cut on head, probably a concussion.

They grabbed his arms and hefted his body up, which hung uselessly underneath him. He forced himself to open his eyes and find his sire beating the shit out of his captors. But no, Angel was still just standing there smugly, chuckling humorlessly.

"Nice doin' business with you boys." He stepped forward and shook hands with a few of the vampires.

"Pleasure's all ours, Angelus."


	7. Chapter 11 and 12

Chapter 11. Part 1.

He hoped his eyes didn't show how betrayed he felt. It was a tad hard to control when you're blinded by your own blood and would be seeing red anyway from pure rage, but he didn't want Angel(us) to know that he was beaten. And he couldn't do shit to fight back.

The two sides shook hands and Angelus went on his merry way, with no more than a mocking smirk and wave before he drove away in his Jaguar.

Spike was left with an overwhelming feeling of despair watching the car lights disappear into the night. They (obviously the Pères de Tomes) were going to do whatever they wanted with him. And no one would care. Not Buffy. Not Angel. No one. He would die again, no more than a fool for love. His sire was supposed to love him. He was sure they were meant to be together. He was also sure Dru was. And Cecily. And Buffy.

Last time there had been no regrets. He was relieved to end that life and start a new one. Relieved to have another chance to be stronger. Better. Spike. This time was different though. This time he could list all the regrets. Like not telling Dawn he was alive. Not kissing Buffy one last time. Not visiting his old grave. Not reciting his poems. Not saving Angel.

Sifting through all the things he'd never accomplished, the regret and despair quickly shifted into determination and resolve. He wasn't going to find his end in a genetic warehouse, hung from chains and begging for mercy. If he was going to go down, he was going to do it fighting in a blaze of glory.

His captors weren't holding him too tightly and had obviously thought he was completely out. Not a threat at all. Too bad they underestimated old Spike. He gathered the warmth that radiated from his dead, unbeating heart and wound it into an orb of raw energy, emanating strength and power.

Without warning, Spike threw his arms forward, driving the vampires holding onto him head first into each other. Those four stumbled and fell backwards. The impact must've at least cracked a few skulls, if not some noses as well. The rest rushed to fill the unexpected gap that the fallen had left and flailed to get a hold on him again.

Dead hands squeezed around his biceps and shoulders, preventing him from escape. Spike grabbed a random arm from the mass and shifted his weight forward, sending the arm and it's owner flying into the sidewalk.

He elbowed a snarling game-faced vamp who was trying to sink its teeth into his neck and weaken him even more. The blow stunned him momentarily and caused him to collapse back onto a few of his comrades. That left only three vampires, each playing pile on top of the Spike. They weren't very good at it and Spike quickly over powered them, tossing them out of his way.

Whatever hadn't run or wasn't unconscious went for another go, which Spike welcomed. He was well irked and ready to kill anything—whether it be a twenty-foot dragon or a bloody butterfly—just to beat the shit of something.

It was a short and chaotic fight, one that he happened win. If they were stupid enough to want an encore after his show, they deserved it. Once the effects of—whatever it was that gave him the strength—wore off, Spike felt like he was ready to collapse. But he still had to finish his job. Still needed to save Angel.

He looked around for a car to steal, but the houses were either abandoned or had conveniently locked garages. He didn't know how far he could walk without collapsing and frying in the morning sun that was rapidly rising behind the skyscrapers of the distant city.

He stepped over the scattered vampires lying on the ground (just wait for the sun, fuckers) and began to walk down the cracked sidewalk to the next block. Maybe there'd be a car parked there.

Before he made it half way down the road, a black van sped up behind him and screeched to a halt beside the sidewalk. Must be his ride. Spike waltzed up to the dark tinted windows and tapped his knuckles against the glass. The van's balance shifted and he heard people rustling inside. Not humans though. The smell was off and they didn't have heartbeats.

It took about the time to light a cigarette for the door to swing open. A large game faced vampire tried to jump out of the van and catch him by surprise, but Spike swung his arm out, effectively clothesling the brutish demon. He was probably a football player in his day.

A metallic clatter, like the dropping of a sword, echoed off the houses in the silence of the early morning. The guy had brought a weapon. Spike picked it up—a rusted crowbar—and headed to the other side of the van.

He jerked the door off its hinges violently. This was not the time to mess with him. He was grumpy, pissed, needed a few dozen drinks, and had an intensifying bruise under his eye. The startled vampire in the driver's seat scrambled to arm himself but Spike quickly swung the crowbar at his temple, hitting it with a loud 'thwak'.

He couldn't sense anyone else in the van and really couldn't give a hot fuck. The keys were still in the ignition (thanks ever so much). Spike jumped in the car and started the engine. The Dixie Chicks blasted loudly as the car roared to life.

"Oh, fro Christ's sake." He swore and smashed the radio in with the crowbar. Slamming on the gas pedal, he tore down the road, running red lights and stop signs. If someone got in his way, tough shit.

Chapter 11. Part 2. 

The streets were busier than he expected, but that didn't stop him. Angelus was most likely headed back to the law firm, and who knew what the fuck he planned to do then. He was in a major damage position. Head of a significant law firm, trusted comrade, martyr of The Powers That Be. He could do anything, and no one would expect it.

Spike pressed the gas pedal down even harder. He was not going to let him hurt Fred. And knowing Angelus, she'd be his prize. He always loved the innocent. Found pleasure in taking that away slowly. Like Drusilla. Crazy bint.

Most of the cars swerved out of his way. Which was good, 'cause he didn't trust the van to get enough traction to miss a car head on at over 70 miles an hour. Why couldn't the bad guys drive sports cars? Like a Ferrari or something. Least that way he had a fighting chance.

The other (correct) side of the road was clogged with early morning rush hour traffic. The odd car would occasionally choose to come straight at him, but they knew that he wouldn't get out of the way. Must've been the cause of at least a dozen accidents.

The first stray beams of sun gleamed through skyscrapers and reflected off the glass and shiny metal structures of the city. He wasn't about to test whether the van windows were sun deterrent or not, but was running out of time quick.

With minutes to spare, he slammed on the brake and sent the car into a violent spin, stopping right by the door to Wolfram and Hart. The sun glinted through the passenger window and hit his hand. He yelped and pulled it away before any damage could be done.

Spike was about to jump out of the car and make a mad dash for the door, but he noticed a group of familiar people peering cautiously at his car. Fred, Wes, Gunn, and Lorne stood outside on the sidewalk, looking confused and troubled.

At least Angelus didn't hurt them. Yet. He rolled down the tinted window and yelled for them to get in the car. Best to get out of here before Angel felt a little more soulless. The AI team ran to the car and jumped in without question. They must've thought of the same thing.

"What are you doing here? And where on earth did you get this car?"

"It's a long story, pet. Now who's gonna drive?"

"Why can't you?"

"Not too keen on being deep fried Charley...the sun, vampire." A steady stream shone on the steering wheel and was getting dangerously close to his legs and captain winkie.

"Not it." All three, excluding Wes, said in unison.

"Fine. Get out."

"And where do you propose I go?"

"Get in the back." Fred suggested. It was dark, windowless, and a dangerous race through bright cheery goodness.

Spike pouted crossly. What other choice did he have? There was no blanket around, and he doubted they could drive across town without once hitting sunlight. He pulled the top of the duster over his head and threw open the door. Crouching low, he hid in the slight shade offered by the van and frantically pulled the back doors open before jumping inside.

Aside from a few sizzling fingers, he made it in unscathed. The low rumble of the car engine vibrated and they leisurely drove away. He was about to criticize the ex-watcher's driving, but decided he really couldn't care. His mind was elsewhere. More specifically, in Angel land. Apparently everyone else's was too.

"How could this have happened?" Fred piped up, worry etched into her delicate features.

"Just as stumped as you Fredikins."

"He didn't...do the nasty...did he?" Gunn asked. It was a possibility.

"Buffy is still in Rome. He couldn't have seen her without our knowledge."

Spike snorted. Course, only Buffy could make the stupid sod happy. He was just a quick mindless fuck, no emotional impact and dust is, after all, a quick clean up.

He was vaguely aware of the group talking amongst themselves, formulating plans and strategy. Really wasn't his forte anyway. Was always the brawn, ready at a moments notice to run headlong into danger, no matter the consequences. Yep, that was him.

He knew Angel still had a soul, he reeked of it, but he doubted it was in the driver's seat. So, that would make him still Angel...just less repentant and more fangy. But that means there's hope, right? It's nevertheless there, inside, at least. Not floating around in the cosmos.

Spike realized Lorne was calling his name, and tuned back into the outside world.

"What?"

Lorne frowned and stared at him a few seconds, studying him a little close for comfort, before speaking. "Not that it's not appreciated, but how did you know to come and get us?"

It took a few seconds for his words to register. "Oh, Angel and some blokes attacked me. I assumed they'd come for you next."

"Did you notice anything different about Angel? Besides the obvious?"

"You mean besides the I'm-going-to-kill-you looks and fangy grins? That's a pretty big besides." Gunn said sarcastically from his spot in the passenger's seat.

"No. Wasn't noticeable."

"I agree, whatever happened was gradual. Which rules out losing his soul."

"Then how do you explain the evilness?"

"He still has his soul."

"How can you be sure?"

"So that really was Angel? He really meant everything he said?" Fred asked.

"No. He may have a soul, but it's not in control. Something must've happened to offset the balance between the demon and Lia—Angel's soul." He covered up his slip. Without thinking, the first instinct was to use his sire's human name. Weird.

"We don't know anything for sure yet. We'll go back to the hotel and hit the books. I'm positive we can find the answers somewhere."

"The answer is not gonna be in some dusty old book, Wussley. The Pères de Tomes are involved in this, and they do not fuck around with ancient bloody prophecy and fancy vampiric laws. So saddle up kiddies, this is the real thing and a real apocalypse we're dealing with."

"The Pères de Tomes? What the hell do they have to do with this?"

"What did I just say? Angel teamed up with them. And I have a feeling it ain't goin to be your run of the mill power duo. Is everyone around here this slow?"

"How do we know you aren't just out to save your own hide? Blame all this on the vampires that are after your ass, get us to take them out while the real enemy destroys the world?"

"You think you got it all figured out, Charley? I care about Angel just as much as any of you, and even if that means sacrificing myself to save the wanker, then that's what I'll do."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

The car pulled into the parking lot of the Hyperion and Wes switched off the engine.

"Oh thank Buddha. Getting a tad bit too testosterone filled in here for me." Lorne opened the door and followed Wes and Fred into the hotel. Spike and Gunn held each other's hard gaze for a few seconds before Gunn got out and too went into the building. Stubborn self-righteous bastard.

Spike surveyed the conditions, deciding on the best method to not get dusted. The sun shone even brighter than before, leaving only areas of dappled shade and scattered safe zones. It was either the frantic chaotic sprint or the old-fashioned hopscotch technique. Spike covered his head and neck with his duster and darted from the van into the old hotel. Frantic chaotic sprint it was.

"Bloody, buggering, fucking, sodding..." he muttered as he stamped out a small fire that had ignited on the sleeve. Does he have to carry a safety blanket with him everywhere he goes? He was lucky the hotel was a public place and he didn't require an invitation or else he'd be royally screwed. Even more so.

Chapter 12. Part 1.

Spike watched the white hats shuffle about around him. He walked into the center of the big open room and stood, not knowing exactly what to do with himself. Fred and Wes were looking through texts behind the front desk, Lorne was mixing a margarita, and Gunn was pulling various weapons from a concealed cabinet.

No one said anything. A distant silence filled the room, leaving him feeling dreadfully deserted. None of this was real. He was just an outsider looking in, watching himself. All sound washed over him. The sound of pages turning, metal clanking, and ice swirling was lost, spiraling down the drain. He glanced around, not really seeing anything. It was there, but not with him. Like looking through foggy glass.

Somehow he had gotten himself up the stairs and into one of the rooms. He didn't question it. Just slid down the wall, sitting and hugging his knees to his chest.

Angel was gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Was this his fault? Did he do something wrong? What atrocious crime has he committed to deserve this? Is he bad? Evil and soulless and just a thing? Could he have stopped it? Was he not watching close enough? Did he not pay attention? Would Angel still be here if he had?

Fred opened the door a crack and peeked her head in. She might've knocked, he didn't know. "Oh, hi. You disappeared and then I found this outside the door and I...Spike?"

She noticed he didn't seem to be aware of her presence. Just stared ahead at the wall, unfocused and cloudy. His forearms rested on his knees, hands dangling listlessly above his shins.

"Spike? Are you alright?" She stepped further into the room and stood before him.

"Is this all there is?"

"...What?"

"Is there nothing else? Is this how it's going to be, forever?"

"I—I don't understand."

Other than speaking, he didn't acknowledge her directly. Didn't move, didn't blink, didn't breath. Still as a rock. Or a corpse.

Fred sat down beside him, placing his duster on top on his arms, hoping to elicit some sort of response.

"You'd think it would be easier. Good guys are supposed to always win. Always triumph. Defeat the evil and save the day and all that fairly tale rot."

Fred didn't know what to do or say. She wasn't sure what this was about and was almost going to ask him to continue, but he'd already begun.

"What's a fellow got to bloody do anyway? Saved enough lives, repented for all the death and destruction, suffered for all the sodding pain. What's the bloody freakin' hold up?" He shouted, looking up to the ceiling.

She wasn't sure who he was talking to, but at least he wasn't catatonic anymore. "You mean Angel?"

"Yeah...yeah. Was living a well enough un-life before good ol' Spike comes along, flying out of that sodding amulet. Shoulda stayed dead." He stood and started pacing around the room, motioning emphatically with his hands. "You hear me? Why couldn't you just let me die? You fucking pansies! Would have been better off he would."

"Spike, you can't blame yourself for what happened to Angel. Someone did it to him, not you. You couldn't have done anything to stop or cause it."

"It is my fault! The Pères de Tomes wouldn't have done this if it wasn't for me. They needed him out of the way, to get to me! Don't you get it? If the sodding powers that be hadn't did the boogie boogie and sent me here just for bloody chuckles, none of this woulda happened."

Fred could see he was about to haul off and kill something. Most likely the nice lamp or maybe the coffee table. She came to his side and grabbed his hand, covering it with both of hers. "We need you here Spike. I don't care what you or anyone else thinks. You make the difference. You are worth saving, remember? You are worth love, and care, and, and, all sorts of good stuff. A champion."

He sighed deeply and ran his hand through his hair, breaking up the strands covered in dry blood. "Thanks ever so pet. Still doesn't change the fact that Angel's gone, and I can't do a bloody freaking thing about it."

"You love him."

It wasn't a question and wasn't meant to be, but he felt the need to say it aloud nonetheless. "I love him."

They both smiled, hearing it aloud. "You can't give up. He would never give up on you, would he?"

"No, stubborn old brooding sod. Even when it was good for him. Intolerable I was, don't know how he put up with me." Spike smiled in remembrance. All the riots he triggered, vampire-staking parties, police raids, impromptu vacations they had to take.

"We'll get him back, I promise. So, what do you say we go back out there and fix this mess?"

He nodded and shrugged on his duster. They made their way into the hall, but before she reached the steps, Spike grabbed her arm and stopped her. "Thanks...for the pep talk. Wes's a lucky bastard to catch a girl like you."

"Your welcome, I think."

They descended the stairs together, attracting attention from the group, who were assembled around the couches in the center.

"And where'd you two lovebirds get off to?" Lorne asked jokingly, taking another sip of his margarita.

"Haha." Fred picked up one of the ancient looking books from the front counter and flipped through its pages.

"We were all a bit curious in fact, mind filling us in?" A bit jealous is he?

"Not really, mate. So what's the what?"

"There isn't much what, actually."

"Yes, unfortunately all of my dark magic texts were left behind in Wolfram and Hart's research department."

"Which is now under the direction of a loony psychotic vampire killer. Gee, I feel safe."

"I can check online, I think I left a lap top in my office." Fred exited, leaving Spike feeling a little less confident. He wrapped his arms around himself, mumbling to himself about not having a smoke. The researchers were researching, what good does he do?

Lorne made a disapproving noise and frowned at his glass, already empty. "Time for another refill, kiddies."

"I'll have a whisky, straight."

"Taking orders on my day off. I really am I nice guy aren't I?" Lorne disappeared into the back for a few minutes, rummaged around and returned with a full glass. "Here you go amigo."

"Cheers mate." Spike quickly downed half the bottle Lorne had tossed to him. He'd never had this brand before, which was rare, hardly came across a beer he'd never tried. The name sounded Russian. Or maybe Norwegian.

"This is pointless." Gunn slammed his book shut and tossed it on the table. "There is nothing here Wes. Makes you miss the 'your-wish-is-my-command books', don't it? There has to be another way."

"I'm open to suggestions."

"Well, I'm just saying, we do have a more intimate source right here." Gunn said, directing his comment towards Spike.

"Hey, I had nothing do with captain forehead's dark side toasting your useless asses."

"You were the last one to see him before the big show. I doubt you guys went out on a fancy wine and dine date."

"Are you out of your gourd? I told you, they attacked me!" Spike and Gunn were getting increasingly infuriated, both in the others face and raising their voices.

"And who are they exactly?"

"Oh I dunno, the lollipop brigade."

They were about to come to blows, but Wes stepped in first. "Both of you stop this, right now. This is hardly the time for your childish squabbles. Angel needs our help."

Spike wasn't going to let the issue drop, but relented first and sat down on the arm of the couch. Gunn followed suit.

"Good. Although I do not agree with the method Gunn chose to pursue the issue, he was speaking what we were all thinking. Where did you and Angel go, Spike? And do be specific."

He glanced around the room. All eyes on him. "Or we could always have you sing for Lorne. Which ever you chose."

"Alright, no need to bloody threaten me. Angel said he'd found a nest of vampires and needed help taking them out. I didn't ask questions. Always up for a spot of violence. 'Sides, not like there was any big to do around this joint."

"So you left to exterminate a nest, then what?"

"Then all hell broke loose. A gang of vampires attacked me. Must've been at least a dozen, almost two. The ponce didn't do anything. Just stood and watched them beat the shit out of me." Spike snorted, "Didn't even care."

"So, he set you up?"

"Yup, just part of his fancy master plan."

"How do we know he's telling the truth? For all we know, he's making all this up, just to save his sorry ass."

"Then where did he get these cuts and bruises, Charles?" Fred defended him, "It makes sense, Spike was a threat to Angel's plans."

"But why not take him out himself? Angel's never been one to shy from bloodshed."

"He made a deal with them. Said so before he dro—"

"Then what's in it for him?"

"That's the scary part, they get Spike, but Angel gets what?"

Spike drained the last of the whiskey and got up for a refill. Did they have to refer to him like he wasn't present? Talking like he has no part in it. Must be a good guy thing. Happened all the time in Sunnydale.

Lorne had locked his alcohol cabinet, but it was no match for an expert like him. Spike pulled out a piece of flint (which somehow remained unscathed in the many battles that had ensued over the past days) from his pocket. He skimmed over the dozens of bottles that neatly lined the shelves. Something European. Preferably German or Dutch. They still brewed it the old fashioned way. Had a specific soothing feeling when it slid down your throat. Like being back at home. He eventually selected three bottles: vodka, tequila, and more whisky.

He didn't have any cigarettes, but managed to swipe some on the way to the kitchen. Lorne always had some in whatever flamboyant jacket-of-the-week he wore. Spike didn't think he smoked, but it was probably for the clients.

He took his stash to a back room, empty except for a desk, chair, and a pile of old magazines from the 30's. It didn't look at all lived in. Layers of dust sifted over everything, plus there was evidence of rodent infestation on the floor. Modern day mice were nothing compared to the enormous ones back in his day. They filled the cellars, crowded into cabinets, and infested the food barrels. Living in the dark ages sure gave you perspective.

Spike leaned back and propped his Doc Martin clad feet on the desk. Cigarette lit, wide variety of alcohol within reach, major brood-fest in progress.

Chapter 12. Part 2.

A dull throbbing in the back of his skull was the first thing he felt when he woke up. That quickly spread to the rest of his head and then his whole body as consciousness came round.

What the fuck happened? He couldn't remember much. A van. And escape. And a gang of vampires. And...his duster! His duster got burnt! He fingered the hole in the leather despairingly. He loved that duster. Oh well, there were more at Wolfram and Heart. Angel could always—oh, that's right. Scrap that idea.

He was laying on his back, amidst many many sharp fragments of wood. He was apprehensive about the idea of moving as the pieces beneath him might decide the wrong place to poke. The ceiling was stained, like coffee had been spilled on the floor above, but it was most likely just water leaking. The one directly above him looked like a duck. And that one on the right looked like elephant or maybe a whale with a pearl necklace.

Through the only window in the room a bright halo was created. The curtains were dark blue and heavy, but the light that wasn't caught was painfully bright, like miniature leprechauns with tiny swords stabbing his eyeballs.

No use just lying there, finding animals in the ceiling stains. Spike groaned and carefully got to his feet, using the wall for balance. The splintered wood shattered under his feet. So much for the chair. Could've been worth something, seeing as the thing was old as dirt, probably from the Victorian era.

His vision blacked out momentarily and he had to hold onto the wall for stability. The handy vampire constitution of his should clear up the hangover within the next hour, but until then he needed some major munchies. The fridge almost certainly was not stocked, with everyone being gone and all, so he'd have to go get something himself. And soon too, his head was pounding. Whether it was from the excess of liquor or hitting the hard tile floor, he couldn't remember. Most likely a mixture of both. Now the question was: did he pass out and then fall or fall and then pass out?

Once his vision cleared he exited the room and made his way to the front door. Halfway there he remembered the sun was still bright and shining with all its glory. So sewers it was. Wouldn't be light in another three hours, but he had nothing to do in the meantime, so he figured what the hell.

The group was still gathered; still slaving away at the worthless prehistoric books of prophecy and history in the big green room that made his skin go prickly. There was some magical presence left behind, like the feeling he got around Willow. Weird. Gave him the heebie-jeebies.

"Hey, I have a marvel idea, ever thought the answer could be right in front of you and you useless monkeys missed it?" They didn't pay much attention to him, didn't even look up from their books, all except Fred that is.

"We already looked Spike. We didn't miss anything."

"And what makes you so sure? Always looking for the answers in the past and future, why never the present? Past is full of betrayal and pain, and right now the future ain't looking too bloody optimistic either love."

"That's it!" Wes shouted as he rushed over to the front counter and pulled notebooks from the shelves, examining then tossing them every which direction.

"What's it?"

"Spike, as much as I loathe admitting it, has a good point."

"Never thought I'd hear that."

"Did I miss something amigos?" Lorne took another swig of drink number 1,542,098.

"We all did. We've been looking in all the wrong places. We need to concentrate on recent events, not the past nor the future."

"Thank you. 'Bout time I got some pissing credit around here."

"What are you looking for?"

"A phone number."

"Um...whose?"

"I'll know when I find it."

"Much as I enjoy you lot's company, think I'm gonna step out of this little pow wow, let the big kids play telephone by themselves." They were too absorbed in whatever thoughts they had to hear him. "Right then, I hate you all. You can go to hell for all I care." Still nothing. "In fact, that's a brilliant idea, you should try it sometime. Tell me what it's like, never got to go there myself." His voice trailed off as he got further away. He doubted they could come up with the answer, despite their epiphany.

Now that's an awful thought, what if there was no answer? No quick incantation to set the record straight? He paused to consider it but quickly threw it out of his head. They always find a way. That's why they're the good guys.

The sound of water trickling beneath the floor led him to the sewer entrance. Handy thing to have two feet from your bedroom door. Might have to move in when the ordeal's all said and done. Could be nice.

He made it into the butcher's without a hitch. The sewer opened up in an alley two buildings down, and better yet, it was a shaded alley.

A heaping paper bag of pig's blood later, he was on his way to the nearest grocery store. Normally, he would never step a foot into the damn things. Menopause soccer moms and old hags jam-packed the place, making it impossible to move without crashing into some desperate wife or widow looking for a quick affair. But he had to make an exception this time. The AI team wasn't going to break up their study binge and there was no way he could wait any longer without food.

It wasn't more than a miles walk through the sewer until his next stop. He got some strange looks from people, probably because he forgot to wash the dried blood off his face and change into some cleaner clothes. Not that he really could though; all his stuff was left in Wolfram and bloody Hart.

He did the best he could to clean up, splashing his face with rain runoff from the last storm. Still didn't erase the black eye and still healing split eyebrow he could feel throbbing away.

By the time he got out of the PMS hellhole it was dark enough that he could walk on the streets without being hit by any stray sunlight. He probably should be keeping a low profile, traveling underground no matter what time of day, but he never was known to be cautious. If they want to find him, let them come. He'll make them wish they never messed with William the Bloody.

Everything was going quite smoothly, no vampire attacks, helpless needing help, fire falling from the sky. That is, until he was stopped by the blinding idiot herself, Harmony.

"Blondie Bear! Oh my god! I totally didn't expect to see you here!"

"Let's leave it that way." He turned and walked away but didn't get three feet.

"Why do you have to be so mean Spikey? I just wanted to have a casual, friendly talk. Like old times, remember?"

"Not fondly. Look, I'm late for a thing. Give Angel my regards will ya?"

"He wants you dead, you know. Like really really bad. He was just telling me about how much he hates you."

He didn't respond and kept walking in the direction of the hotel. She didn't get the point and was still trailing along behind him.

"Spikey? Wait up, these are brand new Versaci. Slow down."

"Harm, stop following me like a bloody pathetic puppy and run off to the boss. Sure he needs a new massacre or something."

"He fired me."

"Great, join the club."

"Really? There's a club? Cuz I've never been in a club exactly. Well there was that one time in high sch—"

"For fucking Christ's sake! Will you shut up, you silly twit? I don't care. You hear me, I don't care! Now bugger off and bother some other poor sod!"

She jutted out her lower lip and sniffled pitifully. "Fine. I'll just go. Into the cruel cold world where dangers lurk in the dark...spots. Maybe I'll find a warm place to sleep tonight. Maybe I won't burn up in the sun and be all ash-y."

"Maybe. Good luck with that." He strolled around the corner and prayed that she wouldn't follow.

"Alright, alright, alright. No need to beg. I'll stay with you guys. Now I know it will be hard, me having to compromise my standards to live in poor quality conditions and all, but I think I can manage."

"No, no, no, bloody freaking no!"

"But why not? I'm sure I can find some way to repay you. If you know what I—"

"I know what you mean Harmony and the answer is no. Now piss off. I have things to do, places to go, and people to kill."

"Like the Pères de Tomes?"

He stopped mid stride. "What do you know about them?"

"Well, only what Angel told me. And what I sorta overheard while hiding in a closet. But that was an accident."

"Right, come on." He grabbed her wrist with his free hand and pulled her along behind him.

"You mean I can stay with you? Oh Blondie Bear, I love you so much." She pulled him into a big hug and kissed his cheek while bouncing around and squealing excitedly.

"Yeah, yeah, just keep walking pet."


	8. Chapter 13

Chapter 13. Part 1.

He knew he was going to regret it. He must've had a complete relapse of intelligence to agree to that. She really was more trouble than she was worth.

"And then she said that she thought James thought my hair was frizzy, but I told her that was impossible because you know I deep condition every week." Went on for hours. The entire way back.

Spike stalked into the hotel, reigning in his temper as much as possible. They needed her, and until they didn't he'd have to be marginally nice to her.

To his surprise, the group was not buried in their books. They lounged around the room, chatting lightly. Except Fred. Fred was sitting behind the counter, talking on the phone, a serious expression on her face.

"Ahoy. Look what the cat dragged in." Spike dumped his paper bags on the table and took his seat next to Gunn on the couch. He propped his feet up on the coffee table stacked with books, and lit another cigarette.

"Harmony. What is she doing here?"

"Thought she could give us some information. You know, what do you call it, top secret info on the big man."

"Angel wasn't very nice to me. Said I was dumb, materialistic, a shame to the vampire race, and he called me a bottle blonde. This color is not from a bottle thank you very much. I think he's gone absolutely crazy." She sat down on Spike's lap, but he pushed her aside onto the armrest.

"Me too Harmonica. But don't take it personally, Angelhair has mucho grande issues to work out."

"You can say that again. Did you know he killed five employees today?"

"For what?"

"I don't know. Something about sacrifices or maybe it was sushi. I couldn't hear much through the door."

"The door...right. It might be helpful if you knew which one it was."

"What was?"

"Never mind. Spike, how long will she be staying here, and please don't say a while."

"A while." Everyone had to stifle a groan. "Hey, I did you all a favor. Didn't have to sacrifice my dignity and drag her along. She knows what all the hubbub is about at the big house, don't you Harm?"

"I was never in jail Blondie Bear, you know that."

"I meant Wolfram and Hart, you bleeding moron."

"I don't have to take this you know. I could leave right now and you would never know the hubbub thing at WF&R. You need me."

"And where exactly would you go, pet? The homeless shelter? Sorry, don't think they have single serving microwavable blood packets."

"Well, I could go to my Aunt Mitchell's house. You know, funny story—"

"One we won't be hearing. Just get to the part about the Pères de Tomes."

"Oh. I don't know much. Only that whatever deal Angel...it is still Angel right?"

"More or less."

"Anyways, the deal that Angel made with the Pères de Tomes people was something like beating up my Blondie Bear and then he gets to open it."

"Open what?"

"Oh, I don't remember. I couldn't really hear anything. I was after all locked in a closet."

"Great, so Angel either has a horribly frightening doomsday device or can't seem to open a jar of sodding peanut butter. Lot of help you've been. Now get out."

"But you said I could stay! You promised!" Spike grabbed onto her forearm and pulled her towards the door; she struggled the whole way, slapping his arm with her pink handbag. "Wait! I know more. I can tell you more. Please just let me stay!"

"Have a heart Spikelicious and let Harmonica here crash at our humble abode. Over 300 luxurious rooms. Well actually the top 200 have probably been condemned but that still leaves 100 fabulous rooms vacant. What do you say Pumpkin? Let her stay?"

"Yeah Spikey, please?"

He glanced between the two. "Fine. Fine. Just don't call me Blondie Bear and don't come into my room." He emphasized his words by pointing his lit cigarette in her direction.

"Alright. Oh thank you, thank you Blon—I mean Spike."

"As mush as I love tender moments, how 'bout we get to the show and tell."

The three went back to their particular seats and waited for Harmony to speak.

"Okay, remember what you said about the doomsday thingy? Well I heard Angel saying that he's gonna make a hell on earth. And then he said Harmony get out of my closet. He sounded real mad."

"Hell on earth?"

"You don't think he means that literally do you?"

"I certainly hope not. But, knowing Angel, anything is possible."

"Then why did he want to give Spike the vampire guys? What did they need him for?"

"Maybe they didn't need him, maybe they just wanted to—"

"To subject me to mind boggling amounts of torture and then, oh I don't know, some more torture?"

"Yes, to speak frankly. They are vampires, never known for their planning skills. I don't see them thinking ahead enough to have more calculated objectives."

"Oh brilliant. So you'd rather see me tortured than used as a tool to bring hell on earth?"

"I'm not saying that. I am merely stating that vampires have very limited patience and...what did you say?"

"I didn't say anything."

"No, no, the part about a tool for opening hell. You might have a—"

"Okay, everything's set. She should be arriving in approximately 20 minutes." Fred bound into the room joyfully. "Ooh, are these Twinkies?" She plucked one from the top of the grocery bag and began unwrapping it.

"Go ahead, help yourself, pet."

"20 minutes? I'm not sure I understand. She is flying in, right?"

"Oh no, she said she can magically zap here, or something. I didn't really understand what she said, but it sounded very convincing."

"Is it safe for her to...zap here? I don't want her taking unnecessary risks."

"Who?" Spike watched the two discuss like watching a ball on a tennis court.

"She gave me her word. It's completely safe. She only uses it for emergencies, which I think this qualifies for."

"Who the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"Willow."

"Willow? Willow's coming...here?" A surge of panic and dread shot through him. Suddenly, the Pères de Tomes were looking very enticing.

"Well yeah. I mean she was the only one to re-ensoul Angel, twice, so it seemed logical that she can do it again, or that is if he actually lost his soul."

"Oh bollocks. Did you mention me?"

"No, why would I? I mean she knows you're alive again...she does know doesn't she? I mean, you told Buffy, right?"

"That's the thing, pet. I really didn't. Why didn't I have a say in this? Why didn't anyone let me know what the hell was going on? I think I deserve to know, considering it's my ass that the Pères de Tomes want to shove hot pokers up."

"Well, you were gone. We didn't know where you went."

"Right. Just bloody brilliant. I need another beer." He got up and was going to swipe a few more bottles before he was intercepted.

"Oh no you don't. You already broke into my very expensive, one of a kind alcohol...thingy, which was given to me by a very close friend, and stole three of my best bottles of liquor. No more."

"Oh come on. Just one."

"No can do buckaroo. Get your own."

"I did. Just wanted to leech off you a while longer." Spike pulled a bottle of beer from one of his bags and popped the cap off. He gathered the rest of the packages and put the blood, beer, and other items into the refrigerator.

"You didn't happen to get any real food, did you?" Fred called from the main room.

"Define real."

"Edible."

"Nope, sorry, fresh out of that." He came out of the kitchen and headed up to his room. "So when is red coming?"

"Fifteen minutes."

Bugger. That was not enough time. He couldn't even begin to process what was happening.

Spike shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed. This was beyond bad. This was terrible. What if she tells Buffy? Buffy can't know. What if she doesn't want him? He couldn't handle that again. And what of Angel then? She loves him, he loves her. He'd loose two people in less than an hour. No, can't have that either.

But red could help get Angel back. That would be of the good, right? And she could get the bloody vampires off his back. That would also be good. So maybe her coming was good, yeah?

That part of his life was over.

It ended when he got sucked into the fucking amulet. Ended when the building collapsed on top of him. Ended when he lost Buffy. Had given up all hope of ever seeing her again, thought he had a nice comfy seat in hell waiting for him. But that wasn't on the Powers That Be's agenda. Having the opportunity to be with her again scared the shit out of him. She had moved on. She deserved to move on. He couldn't rush into her life again.

That part of her life was over.

Chapter 13. Part 2.

Spike had long finished off the bottle of beer and lines of cocaine before Willow arrived. She hadn't given an exact time, so she could pop in in three seconds or three hours. Didn't help his anxiety. Which was strange, considering it was only Willow. Not like Buffy would be popping in along with her, right?

Willow was Buffy's best friend; they do not keep secrets, which makes him seriously doubt that Willow will let this one slip. After all, it is a fucking big secret. Oh, hey Buffy, just thought I'd let you know, your evil undead boyfriend who actually did die came back to life, oh and he's fucking your ex-boyfriend who is also still undead but isn't as soulful as you remember. Yeah, no way around that.

Spike stubbed out his current cigarette in an empty beer bottle and lit another. He was in the process of chain-smoking the entire pack. There were only four left.

The room was dimly lit, the table lamp casting an oval scone of light onto the wall, leaving the corners of the room in murky shadow. The air had become hazy and gray from his excessive smoking, if he needed to breath he would've died from second hand smoke within minutes. Opening a window could've helped, but he rather liked the idea of standing in a cloud of noxious fumes.

Spike continued his pacing until the room had become too cramped and crowded for his thoughts. Sighing, he slid out of his duster, folded it, then tossed it on the bed and made the decision to do something to take his mind off the fretfulness.

He ran his hand through his hair and remembered the dried blood that still clung to him. Have to take a shower then. Which was probably good, considering he stunk like he'd trounced about in the sewers and then in some elephant dung.

The bathroom was a deep green that could've been described as olive, but with less yellow. The wallpaper corners had peeled away, revealing a royal red coat of paint that used to preside, and that in his opinion was much more striking. The fixtures were generic, found in every motel in North America, but he got the feeling that the original fixtures were more grand and lavish than the present.

The scalding water quickly filled the room with steam, so by the time he got out the mirrors were fogged and dripping with condensation. Once dried off, he remembered the lack of clothing available and wished he would've planned ahead and bought some while at the store.

Grudgingly, he put the torn, bloody and stinky clothes back on. The rips in his plain black shirt tore even more when he pulled it over his head and his pants that had been doused in sewer gunk smelled repulsive, especially with his sensitive nose. Have to have Willow lend some supernatural assistance. No laundry detergent would get rid of that stench.

Spike rummaged through the medicine cabinet, thinking the previous occupants might've left some hair product behind. It was stocked full of eye drops and Asprin. On a whim he checked under the sink but it was void of gel as well.

Feeling less enthusiastic about the day, he went to finish off the pack of cigarettes.

"Hi Blondie Bear. I know you told me not to come in your room," Harmony sat on his bed, twirling her hair around her finger as she spoke, "but I got to thinking...well you also told me not to call you Blondie Bear...and that also got me thinking that we should talk. You know like _really_ talk." She was wearing the same pastel pink dress she always had on, a pink jeweled flower in her hair, and three inch come fuck me heels.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath. He did not have the patience to deal with her. "Get out Harmony, now. Before I lose my temper and get dust on the carpet."

"But, I just wanted to talk. You know, remember old times, share a few laughs, have a couple of beers. How about it Spikey?"

"Not too fond on the reminiscing, pet." He crossed to the other side of the room and crouched, searching through the cabinets for gel. Wonder where Peach's room was? Probably have some stashed there.

"Do a fellow a favor and make yourself scarce, would you?" Spike shoved past Harmony, who was pouting and trying to think of another excuse to stay around. He crossed the hall and opened random doors, trying to identify Angel's room by scent. Being the ponce he was, he most likely kept some extra hair gel around, just in case.

The last door opened, at the end of the hall, turned out to be his. It was sparse, very Trojan like. The walls were a deep blue, as well as the curtains and bed spreads.

The bathroom was empty, except for a lone bottle of hair gel, sitting on the counter. If there was a choir around, they would be singing, and Angels would be dancing.

Spike carefully combed gel into his unruly curls, hoping he got it right. There was no way he could ever tell, without a reflection and all. Once that task was finished, he went back to his room, hoping against all odds that Harmony had listened to him and got out.

No such luck, she stood in front of the full-length mirror, wearing his duster and twirling around as if she could see her reflection. "Oh Spikey, don't I look fabulous?"

"Bloody hell Harmony!" He remembered why he was so mean to her before. Fuck, she was annoying. And needy, always requiring attention.

"Is it really that bad?" She looked herself over, "I thought it made my arms look a little flabby, but can't you just imagine me out crime fighting in this baby?" Harmony imitated some martial arts moves, swinging her arm into the mirror and sending it crashing onto the floor. "Oops."

"Out. Now." He gritted his teeth and tried to recollect the calming techniques Dawn had taught him in order to avoid a punch out with Xander. Nothing was coming to mind.

"I'm so sorry Blondie Bear. I promise I'll clean it up. Please don't be mad!" She tried to pick up the pieces of shattered glass. "Ow! It's sharp," she cried out when she stabbed herself on a shard, licking the palm of her hand, sucking at the small wound.

"Harmony! Will you shut the hell up and get out!"

"Fine." She straightened her dress, held her head high indignantly, and stomped out of the room, jacket still on.

"Wait a bloody minute." He ran after her, catching her arm, "Hand it over."

She sniffled, "What Spikey?"

He rolled his eyes. This was getting ridiculous. He was crazy, insane, stupid for bringing her here. "The bloody jacket you stupid chit."

"You'll have to catch me first." She stuck her tongue out at him and ran up the hall, making for the stairs with his duster.

"Harmony! Give it back!" He gave chase and tackled her on the staircase, both of them tumbling down and wrestling on the floor. He tried to pin her arms down, but she kept scratching him with her sharpened nails. She kneed him in the groin and tried to run, but he managed to hold onto her ankle and she crashed to the floor.

"Holy hell, watch the bits and pieces!"

"Ow, my nose. You big bully!" Harmony slapped him lightly on his shoulder; slipping out of the jacket and throwing it on his head, "Here take your stupid jacket. I don't want it, it smells like Payless."

He muttered a string of curses as he tenderly stood. Spike pulled the jacket off his head and froze in his spot. Everyone, including Willow, stood in a large group, staring at them in complete silence, expressions ranging from amused to shock. Willow was the shocked part.

Spike noted how good she looked. Much more confident. The way she carried herself showed how much she grew, no longer the little girl he threatened to kill. Her eyes didn't contain that deep sadness as before, the one that came from years worth of loss compacted into a tidy little few months, and she radiated a warm aura, full of love and hope.

The silence was broken by Willow's burst of astonishment. "Oh my goddess. That...you're not, can't be Spike. Is that Spike? He...I saw the building...it went boom...and and..."

"That's definitely Spike." Fred reassured the redhead who looked dumbfounded, stumbling over her words. "Notice the leather, platinum blonde, and whisky aroma. Definitely Spike. And look, cigarettes."

"Are you sure?" Everyone nodded in agreement. "Spike! It really is you?" She ran up to him and engulfed him in a hug. He was surprised at first, didn't know Willow cared so much, but quickly returned the embrace. He inhaled her scent of strawberries, remembering times that felt like decades ago.

"Wow...I mean...wow." She pulled away and searched his face. "What happened? How, you're alive? Well, not alive alive, but you know. And why do you smell bad?"

He had been silent up to then. Not daring to say the wrong thing and screw everything up. He flashed her a small timid smile before letting it flare into his normal cocky grin. "Long story, love. One that I'm sure science girl would love to explain...in simpleton's terms if you don't mind."

"Oh, well, it's straightforward really. All you really need to understand is the theory of relativity and some historical philosophical theories pertaining to misplaced souls and entities...anyway; Best we can figure is Spike's essence was trapped—sorta—in the amulet when he burst into flames. And when the amulet was returned to Wolfram and Hart, by the Powers that Be, he was released...somehow. We don't know all the details, but that's basically what happened." Fred smiled proudly to herself.

"Don't forget the ghostie bit." Spike reminded her as he sat on the edge of a step, lighting up another cigarette.

"Yeah, and he was a ghost, but we cleared all that up within a few weeks."

"Oh that's...a few weeks? Exactly how long have you been back?"

He took a long drag on his fag and exhaled as he answered, blowing a plume of smoke from his nostrils. "Almost a year now."

"A year? You were alive for a whole year and never told us? Don't you like us? Did we do something wrong?" She asked dejectedly, wringing her hands in front of her.

"No, pet, no. It's not like that at all"

"Then what is it Not something a bloke can sum up in tidy phrases alright?"

She was about to protest but thankfully Wes brought the conversation back on topic and away from tricky issues. "Willow, the reason we brought you here—"

"—is Angel. Fred explained it all to me on the phone."

He glared accusingly at her. "All of it, Fred? Long distance? Exactly how long was this conversation?"

"Only about...one...maybe two hours. I had to explain everything that's happened. It's a very complicated situation."

"And you couldn't wait until she came here? To Rome, Fred, you realize how much that'll cost, don't you?"

"Angel will be happy to pick up the tab once he comes back. Relax Wesley, everything is going to be hunky dory." She snorted and giggled at her word usage.

"That's if we can get Angelcakes back...we can, can't we?" Lorne asked apprehensively, swirling his martini with a straw striped like a candy cane.

Spike drifted in and out of the conversation, not wanting nor needing to hear the answer to Lorne's question. In his mind, there was no question that they would get Angel back. Angel always came back.

"It sounds like a spell, of some sort, I can't be completely sure of what kind, but it must be powerful. Altering the makeup of a demon or a human takes incredibly potent magic; one I don't know how to tap into. And even if I did, it'd be hard to come back from something that strong."

"We don't want you to get into something you can't handle. Dark magic must've caused this; it is an extraordinarily influential force that can sway even the purest creature to its side."

"I said hard to come back from, not impossible. I'm good at what I do Wes." She gave him a stern look before continuing. "I need to get close to Angel. See if I can sense anything. Magic always leaves behind a traceable signature, hopefully there's enough left on Angel that I can track."

"And how do you propose getting close to gel boy? Gonna waltz right in and sniff his ass? Bloody doubt it. He'll rip you to shreds 'fore you get through the threshold."

Willow furrowed her eyebrows in thought and frowned at Spike. "No, I can protect myself. And all I need is a few yards to get a read on him. Though, the closer the better. You guys can go in first, be the attack team. Distract them long enough to—"

"—get my nogs chopped to bits? No bloody thank you, pet. Not going on a kamikaze mission just to get a whiff of the beefcake's breath." He took another drag on his cigarette before getting up and disappearing up the stairs.

Way he saw it, the planning and strategizing was only their method of dealing with the loss of Angel. Standing back and looking at it from a distance, playing pretend like it wasn't a personal issue was one technique, but eventually it got cold and lonely so far away. He much preferred the close up manner, straightforward and real.

With a heavy sigh, he collapsed on his bed, going over his own agenda for the umpteenth time. It only consisted of one item, rescue Angel, but there were numerous versions, each one successful.

Only problem was he couldn't find the energy to carry out anyone of them. With the mediocre performance by the white hats, he was beginning to question his own ability. Angel might be too far gone, not capable of being saved, and what would he do then? Fail miserably? Could not accept that. Could not lose him.

A slight knock at the door drew him out of his musings. He dry washed his face, extinguished that cigarette, lit another, and said a muffled "come in."

Willow peeked around the corner, a friendly smile on her face. Awkwardly, she stepped into the room and not knowing what else to do with herself, sat down beside him.

"'Ello red. What brings you 'round?"

"Oh, not much, just wanted to talk is all."

"Yeah? About what?"

"Well, Buffy for one."

He suppressed a groan and kept a blank façade. "What about her?"

She scoffed, "Oh come on, you love her, remember?" She paused uncertainly, "You do still love her, don't you? I mean you were all obsessive and stalker-ish before and then with the soul, I mean you died for her and—"

"Course I still love her, pet. Love like that doesn't die easily. Never really does." He was still lying down, one hand above his head and the other bringing the second to last cigarette to his lips, gathering the courage to ask a question that's been on his mind since he came back. "How is she?" His voice was quiet and tentative; afraid of the reply he might receive.

"She misses you. We all do. Even Xander."

"So, she doesn't have anyone then, does she?"

Willow hesitated. Spike could see her back tense and eyes fill with uncertainty. "She...well, I mean not..."

"It's okay. None of my business really."

"No, Spike, it is. You deserve to know. She's been with this one guy; I haven't truly met him yet, so it can't be serious. And not long either, only about two months. You have nothing to worry about."

"Regular, average Joe, huh?"

"Actually, no." At his alarmed stare she quickly backpedaled. "Oh, not a vampire, she wouldn't do that. No, Dawn says he's like super strong or something. And immortal."

His breath hitched and for a second he was about to admonish himself for even thinking such a thing, but curiosity got the best of him. "Wouldn't happen to be called, the Immortal, would he?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's it. You know him?"

He shot up, possessive craze filling his eyes. "That fucking wanker! I'm gonna tear his bloody immortal throat out and rip off his balls and force feed it—"

"Whoa Spike, calm down, what's wrong with the Immortal?"

His fingernails dug into his clenched fists, the smell of copper springing to his nostrils. "He's a bloody bastard, that's what. I can't believe she's with him! Are you sure it's the Immortal? Maybe you got him confused with another poncey bloke?"

"Nope, its definitely him. With the not dying and all."

He scowled at her and snarled "I'm gonna kill that pillock! He's gotta learn to respect a man's territory, you know?"

"Oh yeah, just teaming with the man knowledge over here."

He continued with the ranting and emphatic arm movements, hitting his hand on the wooden dresser more than once. "We have to go. You have to zap me there right now! No way am I gonna let him steal her away. No bloody way!"

"Sure, Spike, but..." She stepped in his path and held onto his arms, stopping them from their projected trajectory. "Maybe we should concentrate on the Angel issue right now, and worry about Buffy later." At his unconvinced expression she continued, "She can take care of herself, she's a big girl now. You'll have plenty of time to be the knight in shining armor later. So let's sit down and try to figure this out."

He nodded and they both sat side by side on the edge of the bed. He lit his last cigarette to soothe his nerves. "I take it the class discussion didn't go so well?"

"No. They don't seem as rarin' to circle the band wagons as I expected."

He chuckled at the willowism. Surprising how much he missed it. "No, they don't. Been like this for a while now. Not wanting to face the fact that their hero abandoned them. Too afraid to confront the Irish git. Bloody pathetic if you ask me." He took a drag on the fag, savoring each and every puff and trying to concentrate on keeping as much emotion out of his voice when he spoke as possible.

"What are you doing here anyway?" She blurted out brashly.

He gaped at her, a tad taken aback by her bluntness. Long gone was the bashful bookworm. "Well...I originally came here for the hot sunny days and millions of people, but decided to stick around when the smog and demon hordes moved in."

She smiled lopsided. "Seriously, you never liked Angel. All you ever did was complain and make fun of his hair. And now you're living a door down from him."

He took a contemplative drag on his cigarette, which was getting increasingly close to being stubbed out. He couldn't say for the sex. No, that would hurt the little Scooby ears. But then again...she is gay.

"He...we've gotten over our differences since then. Well, most of them. He's my sire, I'm bound to him whether I like it or not. Can't pick and chose, gotta take whatever the raffle gives you, even if it is cracked." Short, simple, and to the point.

She seemed to accept his answer and thankfully took the focus off him. "The only way I can help is to get close enough to get a read on him. I need to know what kind of magic we're dealing with in order to reverse it."

"He's gotta come out some time. Can't stay locked up in that sodding castle forever."

"A stake out?"

"Bingo. We hide outside, wait for the poof to waltz out, and bam, attack,"

"Wait, attack? Why are we attacking? I can get a read on him from a bush or something, no violence necessary."

He was a little disappointed. "Oh, bush it is then...can't we throw eggs or something? Water balloons?"

She giggled and patted his leg before leaving. "Goodnight Spike. Be ready for action tomorrow at midnight."

"Night, red."

The cigarette was dangerously low, close to burning his fingers. He smashed the end into the ceramic ashtray, watching the red embers fade into nothing and laid back down, waiting out the moon.


	9. Chapter 14

Chapter 14. 

The air was crisp and crackling with an electricity unique to London. The moon hung high in the sky, radiating a cool glow onto the city, bringing out the townspeople to enjoy the late theatre shows, markets, and street musicians. They called it easy pickings.

The noise of chatter, laughter, and music drifted through the night air on a breeze that smelled of the froth of the ocean. The occasional clatter of horse steps and loud carriages would disrupt the magical ambiance, but faded away quickly, leaving the phony sense of fairy tale security in tact.

As he was directed, he sat on his haunches behind a carriage, waiting for Angelus and Darla to return from reconnaissance. They inconspicuously followed a young couple of which they fancied, posing as newlyweds out for a night on the town, wining and dining beside the unknowing victims as if death was not sitting two feet away.

He did not get to partake in the foreplay. According to Angelus, he was "too foolish and daft to have the talent and poise needed to be an adequate vampire." He said that in his upper-class snob accent, meaning to be particularly condescending, but only ended up sounding like a drunken Irish buffoon with a horrible Swedish accent. Although, he wouldn't dare laugh at his posturing, not after the last time. Took him three weeks to fully heal from that beating.

He peeked around the wooden edge, pushing his sandy colored hair from his eyes and searched for his elders. They were supposed to be at the table on the far right, next to the flower box of lilies, but they were nowhere to be found. Neither was their potential prey. A twinge of panic seized his un-beating heart at the thought of the trouble he would be in if he lost them.

He scanned the area one last time to assure himself that they had left, and then tried to calmly assess the situation. Either go off and search for them, go to Dru, or stay put like a good boy. Before he had decided, a muffled scream from the alley behind him alerted him of their whereabouts and he quickly ran over to them, nonchalantly as if nothing had gone awry.

Angelus had a young girl, hardly sixteen years of age pinned against the wall. Her cheek was pressed against the cool brick, her crystal green eyes squeezing tears down the side of her face and trailing onto the wall. Her breath came in sporadic gasps, paralyzed by fear.

Darla had the boy, already drained and lying broken on top of a sack of potatoes and wine. She grinned and blotted away the blood that trickled from her lips on her satin white handkerchief.

Spike watched none of this, however, but was fascinated by the young girl's locket that was squeezed tightly in the palm of her hand. So tightly, he could imagine blood dribbling from between her fingers, dripping from her delicate red painted fingernails and staining the soil at her feet. It looked familiar and brought a feeling of remembrance with it, capturing his gaze and holding it long enough to miss his sire giving him a command.

A sharp slap across his cheek and he quickly snapped his attention back to Angelus' hard eyes. The body of the girl was thrown at him and he held her close. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her trembling arms, his stare drifting away from the terror he found deep in her emerald teary eyes, and he was ordered to kill her.

With one last swift glance at the golden locket, he buried his fangs into her neck. She did not scream, did not cry out, not even a whimper. The blood flowed easily down his throat and he moaned in pleasure at the sweet ecstasy of the kill. Not able to obtain blood from fresh humans under his sire's strict watch, it was a reward, one he would not expect to receive again within the next month or two.

Angelus' sharp tongue would soon drag him from the warm body, warning him of eating too much and becoming ill. But when he was sure the blood would run dry and no reprimand came, he pulled away, puzzled.

To Spike's horror, it was not the dead face of the Victorian girl he was met with, but Dawn's. Her lifeless blue eyes stared back him, relentless and accusing, and her dry lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but he knew she couldn't. The wound where he had bitten her was fresh, skin torn and blood leaking, dribbling down her neck and gathering around her collarbone.

He shoved her away and tried to scream, but nothing happened. The body fell listlessly to the floor, her head bouncing on the hard metallic floor that had appeared, chestnut hair pooling around her shoulders. The sound echoed off surfaces he could not see, like a pin dropping in a silent classroom.

He tried to run but found it impossible to stir. No matter how hard he willed his feet to move, one foot in front of the other, nothing would budge.

A slight metal clink unwillingly drew his attention back to the corpse. As he focused on the golden object, the sound grew louder, resonating millions of time over, as if the action had been repeated numerous times. The locket that had belonged to the bint in the alley, shiny and radiant, he now recognized as Dawn's, settled on the dark floor, sparkling and twinkling tauntingly in an invisible light.

Suddenly, Dawn, the dark room, the locket, all disappeared and he was sitting in the center of a vast field. The sun shone warmly on his alabaster skin, but he did not flinch or feel the urge to hide, instead he lifted his face towards it, soaking in a warmth that felt too familiar for absolute serenity.

"...and then we went on those little boats, you know," he focused his gaze to the left, at the newly arrived Buffy, picnic blanket, and array of food, not at all surprised by her appearance."...the ones with the covered tops and the soprano guys that sing. Dad said it was the best time he'd had in years..."

Her hair shone brilliantly in the afternoon sun, glistening waves tumbling over her shoulders. She popped another grape past her soft pink lips and giggled in memory.

He laughed along with her, placing his hand ever so smoothly on her knee and fingering the citrus and strawberry-checkered fabric of her dress. He remembered seeing her wear it on her 27th birthday, after the surprise party they had successfully thrown her. She had had no suspicion of what they were up to until it was too late. Her smile sparkled brighter than he had ever seen before on that day, causing everyone around her to grin a bit stronger.

A bird flew overhead, chirping and singing about the warm weather, not distracting him from staring deeply into her bright green eyes. He whispered sweet nothings to her, not aware of what he said or why, but feeling the affection inside him intensify at her blushing smile. She preened, distracting herself with straightening the hem of her dress and brushing off invisible dirt.

Looking up again, he met her beautiful eyes, not able or willing to pull himself away from the trance he held himself in. Without thinking, almost automatically, he picked a strawberry from one of the containers she brought and offered it to her. Her eyes danced with not lust, but devotion and tenderness.

The fruit was taken without hesitation or question, complete trust bestowed upon him like this had been repeated dozens of instances before. The warm touch of her lips lingered even as he brought his hand back to retrieve another berry.

Before the next fruit had made it's journey, a loud roar and crash from above sent rain hurling towards them. Sinister gloomy clouds quickly appeared, filling any clear sky and spitting out gallons of water, huge droplets that battered the pink daisies and purple daffodils that dotted the field.

Buffy shrieked playfully and covered her head with her hands in an attempt to stay dry. She giggled and so did he. They hastily gathered what was left of their lunch and dashed for the cover of some oak trees silhouetted in the distance.

Glancing back, he saw her sprinting along within an arms reach behind him, beaming and eyes laughing merrily. Turning his attention forward again, he saw the trees and shelter were less than twenty feet away. The cluster of large oaks swayed furiously in the wind that had kicked up. Leaves showered down, carpeting the slick grass and being matted down with the weight of the rain.

In curiosity, noting the absence of her footfalls and laughter, he looked back again. There was no sign of her. He spun, searching for the melon and strawberry colored dress, waiting to see her vivid green eyes pop out from behind one of the shrubs outlining the area, but nothing happened.

Spike frowned, starting to become increasingly concerned. He strode over to the oak cluster, thinking she might be hiding behind the bulky trunks, lying in wait to startle him. But within three strides, the trees were gone too, replaced by an enormous metal structure that towered into the sky, past the layer of cloud cover and sheets of rain.

A deep feeling of dread overwhelmed him as recognition fell into place. This was not a field he stood in, but an asphalt hell, littered with bodies, moaning and groping blindly for hope. No longer did he hold a blanket in his hands, now it was an axe, dripping with blood and gore. The compulsion to throw it down and flee did not come to him; he just stared at the weapon in wonderment.

A distant scream traveled to his ears and tugged at his unbeating heart to follow, to save the unlucky soul whose throat it ripped from, however there was no one in sight. The field of corpses seemed infinite, stretching out as far as his enhanced sight could see.

The metal tower that loomed above him quivered and shuddered in the wind, looking as if the shotty metal bolts holding it together were coming loose and popping out, the tower nearly falling apart before his eyes.

Spike gave a lurch when a body entered his vision, plummeting towards the earth at an inhuman speed, one that he instantly recognized as Buffy. Her golden hair was dirtied, dress sullied and soiled, body ravaged, not unlike the corpses obscuring the ground.

The wind howled past his ears, humming a sad song of the pathetic that was heard all too frequently. No matter how much he detested and feared looking at the scene that lay before him, his body was rooted to the ground, held by some invisible force that was determined to make him suffer.

The axe in his hands weighed heavier as her limp body plunged closer and closer to the earth. Without warning, the world around him warped, twisting and bending before his eyes. The axe became increasingly heavy, eventually too heavy to hold, pulling his body to the ground along with it.

Spike struggled to pull himself up off his hands and knees, determined to save Buffy from smacking into the hard earth at 100 miles per hour.

A hard thrash across his back sent him sprawling on his stomach, he attempted to cry out in pain, but found no voice. The cold cement no longer underneath him was replaced by an old-fashioned oak wood floor, spattered with blood. His throat was scratched raw from the other times. Sire never appreciated his sense of humor.

The room was warm, a blaze burning in the brick fireplace across the room, creating an ambience that was incredibly misleading. From the kitchen wafted the scent of gingerbread and cinnamon, Darla's favorite smells. His mouth watered at the prospect of actual human food. Course, that was not allowed in Angelus Manor. "Humans are weak and pathetic," he said, "they have no spines. No real passion. You are demon, boy, yet the human still presides. We'll have to change that."

That's when the manacles and blades came in. Tore at his skin mercilessly, especially the dull ones. Angelus never liked razor-sharp instruments, said they were too forgiving, said he liked dull ones because it causes much more pain. He was right. He always is.

The whips came next. Flayed across his body, slashing even deeper into the cuts from the earlier round of torture. He set his hands by his shoulders and attempted to sit up again, tensing for the next lash that was sure to come. It did, right on time, and thrashed against the already tender skin of his buttocks.

He concentrated on a blue glass bead that sat silently less than three feet from his face, hiding behind the leg of a giant red posh chair. Always helped to zone out, to find a focus point and leave until Angelus' sessions ceased. More hard whips followed, but he ignored them as best he could, still struggling to sit between lashes.

A cold hand grabbed onto the hair near the back of his neck, violently yanking his body back and tearing him from the small peace he had found.

"Pay attention to me, boy. Wouldn't want Darla to hear of this, would ya?" The rancid breath tickled against his neck, sending a shiver through his body, and he hated that his sire noticed it.

"Not cold, are we boy? Or is that just fear I smell? Are you scared of me, Will?"

What little pride he had retained would not permit an answer to escape from his lips, but nevertheless the demon presided and obediently responded, "No, sire."

The sadistic smile he just knew spread across Angelus' face made him grit his teeth, wishing to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Even Dru was better than the systematic, agonizingly deliberate torture of his sire.

The fingers wound in his hair relaxed, satisfied with his response, and he let a premature flood of relief pass by. Of course, it was shattered when he was shoved back down, head cracking against the hard oak floor painfully loud.

Angelus' vindictive laughter filled the room, making it so small it seemed claustrophobic. Heavy footfalls crossed the room, causing the floorboards to vibrate under his cheek, and his sire could be heard opening one of those foul Irish beers he loved so much and chugging it down.

Spike gingerly felt the bump on his forehead, checking for blood, but found none. Luckily, it would only be a purple bruise for a few hours. Probably have a splitting headache as well. He forced his eyes open, searching for the lonely glass bead by the chair, but the bead was not there. Neither was the chair. Nor the fireplace and the warm smells.

Confused, Spike pushed himself up to his knees and searched his surroundings. Not the mansion in Italy at all. He was still in that bloody hotel of Angel's. Must've been dreaming then. And fallen off the bed, covered in cold sweat, caught in the throes of some horrible dream he did not care to remember, but knew would be seared into his mind's eye for years.

With a stiff groan, he forced himself to his feet and pulled on his dirty pants that were crumpled in a pile on the armoire. According to his internal clock, it was about T-minus three hours until daylight. Amazing how many nightmares can be crammed into such a short amount of time.

Out of cigarettes, beer, and too nervous to do much else, he tried to go back to sleep, or at least pretend like it. He was more of a nocturnal creature anyway. The bed was in shambles from his midnight escapades, but Spike honestly did not care. A bed was a bed, whether it is a granite sarcophagus or a luxurious Victorian divan.

He laid back on the purple clad bed, hands under his head and tried to relax. The next day was going to be filled with chaos and adventure, both of which he was rather fond of, but still found himself wary. An underlying insecurity, most likely soul based, kept telling him that he would fuck it up. That he would fail like he did Buffy, and the world would come to an end.

It was uncharacteristic for him to feel so disheartened, and he was aware of it, which made the doubt that much more compelling.

A string of loud crashes just outside his door startled him from his thoughts. Spike jumped up and rushed to see what was going on, already on the offence. The first thoughts were for Willow and Fred, knowing that it was his responsibility to protect them.

But before he even made it to the door, something shot threw his window in a flurry of black. Moving too fast, it overtook him and quickly had his cheek flattened against the wall, all without even getting a chance to defend himself.

At last check, they had been fighting for damn near thirty minutes, throwing punches, insults and sometimes each other throughout the hotel. The arena ranged from Spike's room to the hall to the lobby and once in a while the elevator.

Willow and the others were busy fighting groups of vampire minions that had attacked as well, also spread out in the hotel. They all had weapons, so he wasn't too concerned and he knew they could hold their own.

The battle had shifted from room number 153 back into the hall, leaving the room in shambles with busted chairs, lamps, and a nice hunk of missing plaster. The hall was not unscathed either: vases shattered on the floor, ash in neat little piles, a few scattered unconscious vampires, and an axe was stuck in the wall.

* * *

Swords clashing could be heard in the background, along with the occasional battle cry and feral growl. A surge of magic could also be felt rolling through the air, which must have been Willow, considering the strawberry smell that accompanied it.

Blood spattered the olive green carpet as Spike's fist crashed into Angel's jaw. He grinned; fangs extended to full length, and wiped his own blood from dripping down his chin onto his bare chest. Angel was down on one knee, trying to recuperate and fight back, but Spike was determined to win this war.

"Getting tired already, grandpa? 'Cuz I'm just getting started." He smirked and made to kick in his face, but Angel caught his foot with surprising skill.

"Respect your elders, boy." He twisted his foot sharply, a sickening pop resounding over the background noises. Spike yelped and fell back on his ass, clutching his ankle close.

Angel staggered slightly before righting himself and approaching him menacingly. The arrogant smirk plastered on his sire's bloodied face incited a murderous rage he hadn't felt in years. The bastard always knew he was going to win. Always knew how much better he was. And made sure everyone else knew the same.

"I could kill you right now. Chop you into little bits and no one would care. Look around you, Will. You're all alone."

He was seething, but not ready to give up, tried to stand. The blinding pain from his foot made him stumble back into the wall, depending on it to stay standing. Angel laughed at his effort, making it painfully obvious that he had plenty of time to waste before he drove a stake through his heart.

"The mouse fighting the big bad lion. Refusing to give up, even when reduced to nothing but a blemish on the carpet. Insolent child. Your attempts are in vain, you can never beat me."

"Oh, Fuck off. In a fair fight, I'd beat your ass and you know it. 'S why you always have to cheat, you spineless wanker."

He cuffed him ruthlessly across his left cheek. "Watch your mouth!"

"Fuck you." Spike sneered defiantly and lobbed a wad of spit and blood at Angel, who reeled back, disgusted. It landed square in the center of his forehead, dangling proudly. Looks like all the punk concerts in the 70s paid off.

Once the offending saliva/blood/mucus was removed, Angel advanced threateningly, his cold eyes calculating how he would systematically eviscerate him.

"You're going to hurt for that."

Spike had been fingering the small switchblade he'd found on the floor, waiting for Angel to get close enough to use it. He was unaware that he was armed, probably thought that he was still a defenseless little mouse, trapped by the big bad lion.

It didn't take long for Angel to cross the four feet that was the width of the hallway, especially with his livid hasty gait. He pulled back his arm, ready to knock his head from his shoulders, but Spike tackled him, driving the small blade into his torso and tearing along his side. Honestly, he didn't want to hurt Angel more than necessary, but he had to realize that he would be dust within seconds if his sire had things his way.

Angel stumbled and cried out in surprise, clutching an arm to his stomach. The blade couldn't have done much damage, it was dull as hell and not much longer than his thumb. He was just being a drama queen as usual.

Even with a broken ankle, he managed to clobber his sire with a few punches and a spinning kick to his temple. Angel fell to all fours, languidly trying to stand, which gave him some time to recuperate himself.

The hall was silent, except for the somewhat distant noises of an ensuing battle and a strange hum that reverberated through the walls. Spike glanced around, searching for the annoying sound, and concluded that it must be the elevator. But who would be coming down?

The edges of the lift lit up as it approached and finally stopped, a small bell ringing as the doors slid open. He was wary of who or what would emerge, but it revealed only Willow. Her clothes were askew and she had a slight bruise on her cheek, but otherwise appeared unharmed.

The thought to not announce his presence crossed his mind, but she could probably sense him anyway. Angelus would love to get his hands on her, and he was frankly surprised his sire hadn't attacked her yet, so he hesitated about dragging her into their rivalry.

"Spike? Are you okay?"

"Here, love. 'M fine." His voice was weary and husky compared to her strong voice, full of concern.

She picked her way carefully through the wreckage, following the shine of his platinum blonde—yet slightly red—hair, illuminated by the sliver of light from the lobby. Spike had turned the lights off in the hallway, hoping to use it to his advantage.

"More are coming, I saw them from the window. He has a whole army, Spike. I'm not sure we can last much longer." She paused, most likely noticing he wasn't paying attention. For some reason, He couldn't seem to find Angel. He was right there when she came but...

"Hello, Spike? Are you in there?"

"Yeah, yeah...it's just...." He looked around the corridor frenetically, moving her to the side so he could get a full view. "Bollocks."

"Bollocks? What does that mean? Is that bad? Is there badness around?" She spun anxiously, also searching for any danger.

"Shh, pet." Spike pulled her to his side and leaned heavily on her shoulder. "He's around here somewhere. Be quiet."

Tracking him from his blood scent would work, but without use of his leg, that was out of the question. Willow would not be able to sense him because of the unbalance between demon and soul and he definitely was not anywhere in sight.

Maybe with enough luck, his sire would slip up and miss-step or bump into a chair. Spike closed his eyes and focused on erasing any thoughts from his mind, tuning into the world and every little sound in it. Mice in the walls, five clocks all ticking, a body falling to the floor overhead, and glass shattering, but no Angel.

"I can't sense him."

"You shouldn't be able to. He's not Angel anymore, remember? Come on, let's get out of here."

"Good idea. Is your leg hurt?" He nodded. "Put your arm around me."

They half hopped, half stumbled into the elevator and pressed the button to go down. Surprisingly, Angel was not to be seen and the doors closed without incident.

"That was too easy."

"Maybe he ran away?"

"Not bloody likely. Angel doesn't run away."

"Well, you said it yourself, he's not Angel anymore. Maybe this version would run."

Spike shook his head, not verbally responding. She wouldn't understand.

The 'bing' sounded and doors opened into the lobby. Wes was reloading a crossbow while a group of at least seven vampires piled through the front doors.

Willow helped him from the lift and sat him down on an overturned chair at the far end of the room, by the stairs. She hastily unlaced his boot and pulled it off, grimacing at his purple tinged ankle.

"Can you hold them back?"

"For the time." Wes responded to her, putting down another of the vamps as it charged.

He ignored the throbbing of his ankle and Willow's prodding fingers. She muttered some incomprehensible Latin and the pulsating pain decreased, a cool net spreading across the area.

"There you go. That should help for a few hours, but it's gonna wear off, especially if you keep walking on it."

"Thanks Red."

He stood, put on his shoe and cautiously conducted a trial step, glad when the region remained numb.

The recovery was just in time for a bombardment of vampires that crashed through the doors and various windows. How many minions could the Pères de Tomes have?

They swiftly overtook Wes, knocking him to the floor and piling on top of him. Spike rushed over and started staking whatever moved, pulling them from the stack until the ex-watcher was visible. Together they began to dispatch the extras, working as a team as he restrained them and Wes staked them.

"Spike!" Willow cried. She was struggling in Angel's grasp at the bottom of the stairs.

Forgetting about Wes and the army that was filtering into the building, Spike slowly approached the situation, hoping to negotiate with his sire.

"Let her go, Angel. She had nothing to do with this."

"Oh, I disagree. She has everything to do with this. Someone here is trying to ruin my plans to take over the world, and we can't have that, can we?"

"I wasn't going to do anything, I swear! I didn't even know you had a plan. See, so in the dark here."

His sire's eyes were wild and conniving, dancing with joy that he was in control again. "You would taste so good, little girl. Sweet, like candy." He chuckled disturbingly and ran his tongue along her jugular. "So, decision time, Spikey. Do I drain her dry, or do you surrender to me and she goes free?"

Spike had been inching his way closer and was within three feet of the pair, completely dumbfounded on what to do. He couldn't let Willow die, but if he surrendered, the world would meet it's certain doom.

A warm hand rested on his shoulder and Wes came to stand beside him, face grim. "Angel, you don't want to do this."

"Says the boy scout of the year. Thanks for the concern, but I've been on many killing sprees before and have a vague understanding of what I'm doing."

"Spike..."

"What?" He answered aloud, not realizing it was Willow in his head.

"Shh. Gunn is going to turn off the lights, be ready."

He glanced around, seeing if anyone had noticed his mistake, but Angel was busy smelling Willow's hair, laughing at her squirming.

"Yeah, okay. Are you alright?"

He didn't get an answer because milliseconds later, the lights flickered off collectively. At that time, there was a flash of electricity where Angel was standing and a grunt as his body was thrown back.

Willow ran free, coming by his side and holding onto his arm a tad too tightly.

"How are you?"

"I'll be fine, but that isn't going to keep him down long."

"What should we do?" Wes asked.

"Kick some ass." Spike picked up two swords that laid at his feet and approached Angel, waiting for him to stand. He tossed one to him and they both circled each other.


	10. Another part of chapter 14

Alright...short, yes. Sorry. brain damaged.

Chapter 14. 

Not long after the first clash of metal did a new troop of vampires flood into the main lobby. Gunn came rushing down the stairs, followed by Wes and a faction of about the same size. They joined Willow in the center of the room, raised their weapons and tried to fight off the onslaught.

"Come on you ponce, give me all you got!" The swords clashed, both stuck in a standstill. He shoved Angel back, lifting his sword high to strike again, but Angel ducked out of the way, catching him from behind.

His sire whacked him hard with the handle of his sword on the back of his head, spots dotting his vision for a moment. He stumbled and fought to steady himself.

"You know what I always liked about you, Will?"

He threw the sword to the side and slammed his knuckles into his face, catching his cheekbone.

"No...do enlighten us," he slurred, probably through a concussion. The world still had a bright pink polka dot pattern to it and he fought to concentrate on Angel's face, not to mention stay on his feet.

"I always admired your loyalty. Like a fucking dog you are. Man's best friend, forever there till the end." He cupped Spike's chin in his palm and made his glazed blue eyes focus on him. "Still can't bring yourself to kill me, can you? Too bad, I'm just itchin' to sift your dust through my fingers."

Spike tried to care when his sire morphed into vamp face and kissed his neck, lips barely touching his skin, but couldn't muster enough energy to give a damn. No one would miss him; his thoughts echoed Angel's earlier words.

Angel smiled sinisterly and sunk his fangs into his neck, sucking the blood from his veins. Spike was paralyzed, part of him raging to rip Angel's head off for daring such a thing, and another crying out in ecstasy. The pull was vaguely painful, a pinch like getting your skin caught in a zipper, but as time went on, the less intense it became.

Everything distorted with a hazy fog, making it harder to see in the shadow. His eyelids grew heavier and it was difficult not to slip away into the comforting void.

A murky voice drifted by his ears. Sounded like Willow. "Hit the ground Spike!" Concentrating over Angel's shoulder he could see she held a bright light in her hands, one that was about to shoot out and fill the hotel.

Gathering what strength remained he dove forward, knocking both of them onto the floor seconds before a blinding beam shot across the room. It was pure white light, contained in a thin solid layer that was less than a foot above their heads.

Angel was lying underneath him, no longer sucking at his neck, but tickling him. Either that or trying to push him into the light, which he did not want to believe.

After about ten seconds of intense light, it receded, shooting back to Willow. She faltered and would've fallen if Wes had not caught her. The floor was like a beach of ash; all the vampires who had been touched were incinerated.

Spike rolled over, putting himself on top of Angel, and tried to pin his hands to floor and restrain him.

"You're pathetic, you know that? Trying to save your sire, your lover. I have news for you, he's dead. He died when you touched him, contaminated him. Everything would've been fine if you stayed away."

Spike tried to ignore the sting of his cavalier mannered words and keep Angel under control. He had both his wrists in his grasp, but his sire was stronger and in no time would easily overpower him.

"There's still two dozen or so in the basement. And they're chomping at the bit to get to my Dolce and Cabana suit...Whoa, did I miss the party or what?" Lorne smoothed the wrinkles from his lavender suit and gaped at the scene while struggling for breath. Not that he had been fighting or doing anything useful. They probably just chased him up and down a few flights of stairs.

No one paid much attention to him though; they were trained on the two vampires fighting on the plateau between the sets of stairs.

"You know he also had son? His name was Connor, but he had to give him away. Because of you. You came and fucked everything up. Everywhere you go, people get hurt."

"Shut up!" He snarled. Angel had mentioned a son, but he didn't pursue it, seeing how painful it was to even think about it.

Angel bucked him off of him and jumped to his feet. Spike quickly did the same but was overtaken by Angel. He was thrown through the banister, crashing to the ground as it gave way beneath his weight.

Whatever good air was, it was knocked out of him when his back smacked into the hard floor. He struggled for breath, hating the panicked feeling that flashbacked to being locked in his own coffin.

By the time he got to his feet, the vampires that were in the basement had surged into the room and took on Gunn, Wes, and Willow. Angel didn't waste any time continuing the offence as he leaped from the top of the staircase and attempted to clothesline his head from his shoulders. Spike caught his arm in mid-flight and swung him around, so that he crashed face first into the wall behind him.

He smirked and cracked his neck side to side, waiting for Angel to get to his feet.

The group seemed to be having a tough time with the mass of minions that descended upon them, but his sire was of a bigger concern. He must've made some friends in high places to get together such a faction as that. Never before had he seen such a large organized assembly of vampires. Well, except for Sunnyhell.

Angel didn't bother with a fair fight. Out of nowhere he lunged and attempted to tackle Spike to the ground, but he ducked to the left, sending Angel sprawling to the floor.

"Some hocus pocus would be helpful 'bout now, Red." He yelled over his shoulder as he picked up a small end table that was tipped on its side.

"I don't have any components, Spike. None of us planned on such an early invasion." She was nearly hit by a dagger thrown from the opposite end of the room. It surprised him that she saw it in time to get out of the way. Just shy of pitch black, the humans shouldn't be able to see shit.

Spike tossed the end table to Angel, who easily caught it. He could read the thoughts that flickered across his face all too easily and knew he thought he was clever, catching the table like that. But before he let him get excessively cozy, Spike dropkicked it, the table hitting his sire in the face and knocking him on his ass.

"Ha! Didn't see that, now did ya, you poncey wanker?"

He bounced on the balls of his feet, getting more fired up as the fight went on. There was still the looming possibility of Angel kicking his ass and winning, but he pushed the uncertainty into the farthest region of his mind.

Angel started to come around, trying to prop himself up on his elbows, which did not leave enough time to rummage around for a desperately needed beer, but he'd persevere in the name of all that was right and good.

After a quick assurance that no white hats were dead yet, he cracked his knuckles and was about to swing an awful right straight into Angelus' nose when a group of minions rushed him, playing pile on top of the Spike. And god, they smelled worse than his cousin Claudio's horse stables.

He fought his way out, basically just snarling and lashing out at anything that moved. Some got the fuck out of the way, but others were more determined and loyal, relentlessly slugging him back. A few ruthless blows and a vase over the head later, he found himself being held up by his arms, waiting for Angel to beat the shit out of him.

Regardless of how much he willed his legs to move, to do anything, to just get him the hell out of there, nothing resulted. Blood from the freshly opened cut trickled down his face. Luckily none got in his eyes, but his eyelashes were sticky and clumped together.

He stared up at Angel through half-lidded eyes, everything else dissolving around him. His sire crouched in front of him, running the pads of his fingertips along his cheek.

"My poor childe. Couldn't you just obey me, just once? Look at all the trouble we had to go through, just for you." His voice lost the soft melancholy tone he had assumed and he stood to full height. "You really aren't worth it."

The last thing he saw was Angel's fist speeding at his face, then he slipped away.


	11. Chapter 15

Sorry for the lack of updates everyone. I did not abandon this story, I am a good little girl and will finish it. Real life decided to come barreling right in and I got a little sidetracked but I'm back now. Yay!

And also, to people who got five hundred billion chapter update emials last month, I officially declare myself an idiot. Somehow I managed to delete and switch the chapters to the point where it was impossible to fix without restarting the whole fucking process. Sorry, I am an idiot.

Now, on with the story!

Chapter 15. Part 1.

Spike stared into Angel's sardonic eyes, careful to remain as neutral as possible. His sire stood in front of him ominously, weight on his right foot jutting out his hip, smiling and staring as if watching a mouse search frantically to find its way out of a maze that's only escape was booby trapped.

The weight of the silence was intense. Neither spoke verbally, but an implicit dialogue passed between them, long memorized and rehearsed, it seemed, in preparation for that day.

Spike was vaguely aware of his surroundings. Four vampires stood to the side, tittering and glancing between one another charily, not fully meeting the other's gaze.

He also knew he was in a warehouse, the same as before, with the exact same smells and sounds. The only difference was now he was actually conscious and not lying in a pool of his own blood…yet. Hey, things were looking up already.

The strain on Spike's arms was already beginning to tear at his muscles, so he shifted, hoping to find a more comfortable position, but his toes barely skimmed the floor, the steel cable suspending him above the ground. It sliced deeper into his wrists with the rearrangement; more blood stains trickling down his arms, across the planes of his bare alabaster stomach to be absorbed by the waistband of his pants.

"So you caught me, bully for you. What'd you win?"

Angel chuckled dryly in that creepy hair raising way only he could manage. "It's not about what I won, Spike. It's about what you lost."

"Yeah? And what, pray tell, would that be?"

"Everything…and nothing at all. You never really had anything before, did ya? Always living off of everyone else: Angel, Dru, Buffy. But they never loved you; they took all they could until nothing was left. So, you've never even had yourself, have you?"

Spike pursed his lips and held his head higher in defiance, images of Angelus lying dead in a pool of blood and gore flashing behind his eyes.

"This arrogance, this bravado, confidence…it isn't you." Angel ran his fingertips down Spike's torso lightly, goose bumps immediately following his trail. "I've seen the real you, William. I've seen the pathetic despicable nothing you are."

"Get off me, you ponce!" he growled, kicking at Angel when he didn't step back. The cable swung with the shift in weight, steel digging into his raw flesh. He tried to steady himself, stretching to get his toes on the cement floor, but he wasn't tall enough and the cord kept swinging, spinning gently.

Angel jumped back, avoiding his feet and laughing mockingly. He seemed to be growing tired of toying with him as he paid more attention to the band of vampires in the corner.

He cast a final look in his direction, smirking and pointing at the floor below him. "Stay there."

Spike gritted his teeth and reminded himself that back talk would only get him in more trouble—probably resulting in a painful end—and that he should concentrate on escaping.

Angelus talked quietly with the skittish vampires, glancing back occasionally. It was obvious he was not in control of the situation, so he must've been scouted out by the Pères de Tomes. But what interest did he have in their plan? And for that matter, what was their plan?

They obviously needed him alive, or he would've been dust weeks ago. He didn't have anything they wanted though. Unless there was some prophecy he was inadvertently involved in.

And there was no way anyone in their right mind would go through this much trouble just for revenge. Spike wiped out the Pères de Tomes over a century ago; he was surprised even he remembered it. But then again, vampires were never known for having a sane mind.

Angel sent the four vamps on their way, watching as they vanished behind a door in the corner of the room and he pulled up a chair in front of him. In the dark room, his eyes glowed with a supernatural yellow tinge, almost of a cat, a golden fleck amidst the deep brown that held a persons attention like hypnotism. He crossed his legs and folded his arms across his chest, lighting up a cigarette.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, staring at each other. Spike tried to read his sire, tried to figure out what his angle was, but all he saw was Angelus, no sign of Angel on his closed face.

"What game are you playing, Angelus? Could be miles away, playing tiddley winks with the slayer instead you're cooped up in a stuffy warehouse with you're all too favorite childe." Something didn't add up. Sure, Angelus wanted to make him suffer, but never had he gone through this much trouble when Buffy was within reach, as much as he hated thinking of that idea.

He took a contemplative drag on his cigarette and leaned back in his chair. "Not playing any games, Spike. The slayer will come in her own time, once the world goes up in flames. Hell, she might even be on her way here now, her little naïve Scooby gang in tow.

I must say, bringing in the witch bitch…very smart move. But that'll only work to motivate my slayer even more. I expect her here in…four hours. Five if the traffic gets backed up. People can feel it. Can't you? The impending doom, hell on earth, fire and brimstone…and its all because of you."

Spike looked at Angel skeptically, trying to make sense of the situation. "What are you going on about? I'm the one chained to the bloody roof. 'M not causing anything."

"The thing about revenge is, you don't have to do anything. You already did, and someone is still very pissed off."

The door in the corner creaked open; a few minions scuttling out followed by another new vampire, adorned in black, the end of a cloak dragging behind his feet.

"Speak of the bastard. Tom! How are you? Still as bright and vivid as ever I see," Angel said with fake enthusiasm, not getting up from his chair to acknowledge his presence.

"It's Aries now, not that I'd expect you to remember…or care."

He spoke with a rough French accent, his voice gravelly and ancient. He had long dark hair that hung below his shoulders and was frizzy enough to look unkempt for at least a month. His red lips framed razor sharp white fangs that were eternal, without need to change face, which showed his age. Only vampires hundreds and hundreds of years old had that attribute.

Spike noticed he walked with a fabricated grace, an impression of what he wished himself to be. He'd seen that type before, hell, his sire was that type. This story had been played over so many times it was ridiculous.

"So…this is Spike, is it? Truly a sight to behold."

The vampire looked him over, grazing his skin with his dark amethyst eyes, and he motioned to the minions that flanked him to remove his cloak. They hastily did so and handed him a chalice of blood before being dismissed.

"You have no idea how long I've waited for this."

"And what exactly is this, mate? Cuz I have no bloody idea who the fuck you are except a bloke that has too much arrogance crammed into an extremely outdated noggin."

Indignation flashed across the elder's face, his lips forming a tight line of impatience. "You do best to show me the proper respect, boy."

"And you'd do best to shove off, old man."

"Told ya' he was a difficult one. Hey, think you could get me a body or something? Feeling a bit grumbly myself." Angel examined his nails, picking the grime from under them.

"I do not serve you, Angelus. And why are you still here? I do not wish you to be in my presence."

Angel spoke without looking up, obviously aggravating Aries more than necessary. "Drop the poncey act, Tom. It won't work on me, and I guarantee it will not work on him. Now get one of your servant boys to fetch me a body and it better be fresh or I walk and he comes with."

"If you leave, how do expect you're little slayer to come running?"

"She's already running, I promise you. Always comes running back to daddy."

"Fine," He grudgingly agreed, turning to a insignificant little minion hiding in the shadows, "You! Get him a body now. And make it fresh, wouldn't want the mighty Angelus to have spoiled blood."

With a nod of the head and mumblings of compliance, the vampire scampered out of the room.

Spike watched all of this in a daze of confusion, trying to piece together exactly what was going on.

"Now, back to business…" He stared at Spike blankly, forehead creasing in concentration.

"You were about to tell me what the hell is going on, remember? Or has you're brain turned to mush in your exceptionally old age?"

He ignored the obvious jab. "I bet you are wondering why you are here?"

"Well, yeah, are you deaf?"

"You're brash tongue will not save you. I advise you to bite it before I'm forced to make you." He paused and composed himself, sniffing huffily. "You are here because I wish you to be. You made a grave mistake a century ago, one that you deserve to pay for."

"I already have. Remember the speared to the floor bit? Not my fondest moment, mind you."

"A few hours of pain do not suffice for the hundreds of my brethrens lives."

"So what was that then? Just a way to get your jollies off, pinning the spike to the sodding floor?"

"Precisely, yes. It was quite entertaining, I assure you. Your perfect skin…what a shame to have been marred so beautifully and not have any souvenirs." Aries ran the pads of his fingers along Spike's chest and down his abs. "But this time, this time it is a much different situation. It is still about revenge, it is always about revenge, but this time there is a purpose, a plan, one that you play an integral part in."

Spike held his defiance in place, holding back and trying not to piss him off until story time was over. "And my part would be…"

"You are a key, if you will. You are my key to opening the world between Diathaus and this dimension." He continued strolling circles around him, pausing every so often to take a gulp of blood.

A key? The reference was too similar to Dawn and made him shudder involuntarily. In fact, the entire scenario was strikingly similar to Glory's plan. Did any villain ever come up with their own plan?

"A key, huh? And why am I the lucky bastard to open hell?"

"Oh, don't get your hopes up. You're not special, not by far. I just hate you."

"Right, well, the feelings mutual."

"Diathus is our god. The one and only god and soon to be your one and only as well. He is stronger and better than any being you will ever meet in your tiny trivial life. Once brought here, he will reign supreme. Everyone shall bow--"

"—Blah blah blah blah blah. All this prophetic magical mumbo jumbo isn't new and definitely is not original. And if you paid any bloody attention whatsoever, you'd realize that the bad guys always lose. Believe me, I've tried many many times."

Aries did not respond and Angelus laughed loudly.

"What's so funny Angelus? Do not forget, I can easily change you back into your old dismal self just like that." He snapped his fingers for emphasis and stormed out, tossing is glass against the wall.

Angel continued to laugh. "God, I hate that guy."

"Right there with you, mate."

Angel stood and ground his cigarette beneath his shoe. "Hey! How about that body?" He yelled over his shoulder.

Seconds later the door burst open, two vampires throwing a struggling young girl onto the floor and retreating. She laid there, crying softly and trembling, her long black hair fanned over her shoulders and the ground.

"Lookie lookie, a play toy." Angel waltzed over to her calmly, nudging her shoulder with the toe of his boot. "Excuse me miss, is something wrong?"

Spike cringed and wanted to close his eyes, hide from what he knew all too well was coming, but found himself captivated by the scene.

She peeked out from under her hair, whimpering. "Please don't, don't hurt me, please."

"Oh, don't worry, it won't hurt much. I promise I'll do it nice..." he gruffly picked her up from the floor, holding onto her shoulders forcefully, "and…" he pulled her along with him, closer to Spike until they were less than a yard away, "fast."

Angel morphed into vampiric visage, allowing her a glimpse of his demonic face before viciously biting into her neck, growling hungrily. She tried to cry out, but found her voice forsaken in fear.

Spike felt his soul cry out for her, pushing to help but he looked on impassively, trying not to give in to the mind games Angelus reveled in.

Chapter 15. Part 2.

Spike was roused from his thoughts by a familiar voice resonating through his head. He searched the room, or what he could see of it, but knew no one occupied it except him. Everyone had cleared out hours ago.

Occasionally he could make out raised voices or shuffling feet in the other room, through the mysterious closed door under which the only light in the building shone. Even his paranormal eyesight did not compensate for the peculiarly dark and sinister shadows he was left dangling in.

By that point, Spike wasn't sure he had heard anything at all until the voice resurfaced, calling his name again.

"Willow?" It was a stab in the dark, literally.

"Spike, thank god I found you. I wasn't sure if my magic was strong enough yet and it took me a few tries but yay, I found you."

He wiggled, trying to get a better perspective of the enclosed room. "Where are you? I can't see you…"

"Course not, I'm in your head. Magic Wicca, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Now he felt a tad too much blonde. "Umm…" It felt stupid and ridiculous to talk out loud, not to mention dangerous alerting the enemy, but he felt even weirder about thinking when Willow was listening. Could she hear him now?

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, not sure for how long though. Something big is going down, Red, and yours truly is the party favor."

"How big?"

"Real big. Destroying the world big."

She didn't reply right away and he almost thought she broke the connection. "Is Angel with you? Is he alright?"

He scoffed, but realized she couldn't hear him. "Sure, granddad's right as rain. Still evil as can be, oh and did I mention, still trying to open a dimension to hell?"

"You mean like Acathla?"

"No…maybe, I don't know. Aries, or Tom, whatever, is going to use me to open a, whatchya call it…a portal to a hell dimension and bring his god into this world."

"What does Angel have to do with that? He wouldn't help them if there wasn't anything in it for him."

"Damn right, selfish ponce. He's doing this for Buffy. Once she hears that hell is literally breaking loose, she comes a runnin' and he doesn't have to get off his lazy ass to kill her."

"Because she'll come to him. Right, that makes sense in a twisted sorta way."

"So how's this gonna play out?"

"We come, get Angel all soully again, stop the big bad and save the world."

"Not going to be easy as that, pet."

"Why not?"

"Never is. Plus, you don't even know where I am yet."

"Good point. Where are you?"

"Uh…" He wasn't sure where the hell he was. Not like he had a chance to go sight seeing or was given the grand tour or something.

"Well, it smells like the ocean, there are stacks of crates, and I think there are some fish somewhere. Best guess: the docks."

"Docks, right. I tried a locator spell but they must have the place magically safeguarded."

He zoned out, paying more attention to the going-ons in the next room. A long shadow appeared under the door, blocking out the light. The doorknob twisted and a procession of minions entered, each carrying a box.

"Spike? Are you still there?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Better hurry, the party's about to start."

"Okay. We're on our way. Hold on, all right? Don't go all dusty on me again."

"I'll try. Take care, Red."

Her connection left his mind quickly; leaving a tiny empty spot that he didn't know had been filled. Willow was a familiar presence, a place of comfort and without her, everything felt cold.

The group of fledglings filing into the room slowed, circling him and each unloading their box. They placed a bundle of four candles on the cement floor, followed by a wooden bowl filled with green, woody scented herbs and then waited mutely.

Willow hastily relayed the story to the rest of the team, still smarting from the previous battle and wary to march into another.

They stood before her, nursing injuries, waiting for her plan. She had given the quick version to Spike, depending on him to trust her, which she couldn't entirely do herself because there wasn't much of a plan in the first place. Just a goal: stop the apocalypse. Hopefully she could communicate that to the troops with more conviction than she felt.

"Uh…" Yeah, that was a great confident start. "I know that going into this might seem kinda rushed and unrehearsed and maybe a bit reckless, but we can do this. We're seasoned professionals by now, right?" She laughed awkwardly. "So…we can do this? Did I say that already?"

They stared at her doubtfully, apprehension and fear clearly written across their faces. She had to say something. Something inspiring and compelling. Where was Buffy when she needed her? She needed a leader, she couldn't do this by herself, she had no idea what to say and how and why the hell she was even trying.

Willow deflated, sighing and losing the charade of confidence she had adopted. "Listen, I know this is hard. I know that without Angel, without a leader, everything is all confusing and, and confusing. And I know that I'm not empowering speech woman, but we have to make do with what we have.

Angel needs our help now. He's always been the one to take the world on his shoulders and be the strong superhuman vampire. Now it is our turn to help him. And Spike. Spike...well, he saved the world. So we need to go and rescue them, we need to be strong and superhuman-ish and save the world." No one responded. She offered an awkward smile.

Fred jumped up from her spot, moving to Willow's side. "Yeah. You know, we can do this. And Spike and Angel do need us. Sure, there are probably dozens and dozens of vampires waiting to kill us…along with some nasty demons that like eating little girls…but that doesn't matter, because we are the good guys so we have to win."

"Um, yes, however empowering your speech was, Fred, we still need to get into the warehouse before we can fight the dozens and dozens of vampires you spoke of. You can't simply expect to be on the guest list."

Willow fielded Wes' question, formulating a plan as she explained. "I'll go in first, use a barrier spell to hold back any demons until we're ready. Wes and Gunn, you follow me and take out as many vamps as you can. Fred, I need you to get to Spike as soon as you can, he can help with the grr fighting. Lorne, I need you here, putting together the spell to ensoul Angel."

"And what if we're too late?"

She made sure to put on her resolve face. "We won't be. I'm going to communicate with everyone psychically. Give directions, try to keep everything in order. Any more questions?"

No one said anything and she quickly dismissed them, everyone dispersing and setting about their assigned tasks. Willow smiled in relief, thankful things had fallen into place easily.

The mission ahead wouldn't go as efficiently, she was sure of it. There were too many uncontrolled variables. Too many things that could go wrong. Everything felt so out of control. She didn't like it. She didn't like the other side having the power.

And if the portal opened…there was nothing anyone could do. Nobody knew how Aries planned on opening the portal so they had no way to know how to close it. Spike was obviously an important component, but why him? What did he have that made him special? She tried reading his mind, combing through whatever encounter he had with Aries, but he was too closed off.

Maybe she should call Buffy. The thought had crossed her mind multiple times. But Spike would not like that. And she was all the way in Europe. Unless, like Angel said, she was on her way here to save the world. That would definitely be of the good.

She felt a rush of relief at the thought of her friend by her side on this one, like always. Then another part of her, the more annoying part, said that she should be independent and responsible and handle it on her own.

Either way, they were marching straight into a maelstrom.


	12. Chapter 16Part 1

So just to clear things up, Buffy is not coming because she is too involved with the Immortal. More will be explained later, that's all that is important now.

Chapter 16. Part 1.

Spike tensed as Aries approached, twirling a wicked looking knife in his hands, sharp edges glinting in the slight light that peeked through the painted windows.

Preparation for the ritual had begun an hour ago, minions and warlocks parading in with their fancy magical components. He had no idea what this ritual entailed and was becoming increasingly concerned and apprehensive.

"How does it feel, knowing that you are the cause of the end of the world? Does your filthy soul ache just thinking about it?" He trailed the cold tip of the blade down his stomach as he spoke, gazing at the pale pink imprints left on his skin.

Spike felt a surge of rage at his confidence and a trickle of doubt concerning his team. "You won't get away with it. Others are coming, going to kick your ass. And just wait till I get my hands on you, you'll be dust in seconds. There's no way you're gonna win."

He laughed dryly and stopped toying with the knife. "I already have." Aries violently shoved the dagger into Spike's abdomen, grinning gleefully as it lit up, glowing with a red tinted aura.

Spike squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, mentally calling out to Willow, hoping he could use the connection the same way she could. But nothing happened and the drone of the warlocks began, swelling and growing until the walls vibrated with the hum of their voices.

His wound was throbbing with a hot intensity and he felt his energy being drained, like the knife was literally sucking the life out of him.

Just then, as the droning climaxed, the door burst open and the dozen extra minions that were guarding the door charged. But they were flung back, landing in a pile of growling and snarling bodies.

Willow emerged from the door, hand thrust out in front of her, her typically red hair tinted white. She was the essence of power, everything about her demanding respect and fear. Gunn and Wes appeared at her side, equipped with a sword and axe.

Aries hadn't taken his eyes off the circle of warlocks, still droning unfazed. A small red orb of light was starting to form in the middle of the circle, pulsating with power and spreading outwards at an alarming rate.

Gunn and Wes raised their weapons and right away decapitated three vampires before they got to their feet. They beat the rest back, Willow casting holy water into the air, simmering the vamps skin.

She left the men to finish off the remaining ones and scuttled around the edge, laying a book open on the floor and kneeling beside it. Fred followed the same path but skirted around the boxes behind him. She clutched a cross to her chest and nervously glanced about while hastily creeping along.

"Spike, oh my gosh, are you alright?" She eyed the blade impaled in his gut fretfully.

He tried to find the strength to talk, but everything was gone. He could barely keep his eyes open. The warmth that once encompassed the wound now spread through his body, a pleasant numbness he wouldn't mind slipping into.

"Spike? What's wrong, can you talk?"

She moved forward, almost flush against him to look at the cord that binded his hands together. He gathered the strength to talk from the cross that got alarmingly close to his precious region, the tiny amount of leather not able to protect him from the dangerous symbol.

"Fred, Fred dear…the knife, get the knife."

She looked horrified at the thought of having to yank the dreadful thing from him, but complied anyway. He took a breath and tried to stabilize himself. In one quick movement, she yanked the blade out, blood gushed from the wound, but it didn't hurt as he thought it would. His entire body was warm and tingling, enticing him to just close his eyes and leave the horrible place where his sire tried to kill him and the second love of his unlife didn't know he was alive.

Even though the knife was out of his body and lying on the floor, it still smoldered bright red and the portal continued to expand.

He must've spaced out because all of the sudden Fred was standing on a small crate and holding her light jacket to his wound while examining the cord that binded his hands. She frowned and pulled some bolt cutters from the bag she carried with her.

Although she struggled some, she managed to snap the thick metal cord but let him fall to the ground. Spike tried to care that he was lying face down, but couldn't, he also tried to care that Angel was looming behind Fred predatorily.

In a swift dangerous motion, he had her encased in his arms, neck bared to the side. She trembled and fumbled for the cross but it clattered to the floor.

"Angel, Angel please stop. Please, you don't want to do this."

He laughed threateningly, eyes dancing with darkness that captivated Spike. He had never seen this sire. This was a completely different side of him, an uncaring completely callous demon. He watched as Angel ripped into her neck, sucking the life from her while not breaking the stare.

No joy. There was no joy. Angelus loved killing. He loved inflicting pain and would draw it out as long as possible. But this version was just out to hurt, out to hurt anyone without taking any joy. Like he was empty.

Spike growled and surged to his feet, smoothly vaulting over the crate and knocking them both to the ground. Fred rolled to the side, hopefully out of danger.

Inadvertently, his demon had surfaced and now took control, beating the shit out of Angel, who didn't care. He didn't care. Everything that made his sire was gone, leaving nothing but a shell. He could not infuriate him, could not hurt him at all, he was too far gone.

Spike felt sadness tearing at him, that his sire could not hold on to any shred of himself, when he could, even inflicted with his hard earned soul, he had stayed strong enough to survive.

Without realizing it, Spike had lost focus of the battle around him, still pounding Angel's face until a bright golden light shot from Willow into Angel, the extreme force of the magic throwing him yards back from his sire. He landed with a hard thump, jarring his already injured body.

Angel laid still for a few moments; eyes closed and face peaceful like he was sleeping. Spike slowly got to his feet, wincing but ignoring the hot pain, and cautiously approached Angel. He kneeled beside him, afraid to touch him and looked to Willow helplessly, not knowing what was happening to his sire.

She looked drained, trying to recover from the powerful magiks she performed. He knew it must've been hard; the only known way to recover a soul is with the orb of Thesula, which she didn't have. The witch shrugged and held up a finger to indicate she needed a minute to recuperate.

He looked back at Angel, surprised when he was met with deep chocolate eyes.

"Spike? What…" He wiped the blood from his mouth on the back of his hand, confused. He looked over to Fred's motionless body lying on the floor and his eyes grew wide in realization. "I didn't, did I?"

"She'll be fine mate. Now get off your ass, we've got the world to save." He helped Angel to his feet and took him over to Willow.

"Red, you alright?"

She nodded, looking at Angel quizzically. "It worked?"

"Seems so. Good job. Now take of him for me, would ya?"

He took Angel's arm and pulled him closer to Willow before running off to kick Aries' ass. He assumed the bloody portal would stop opening as soon as the damn knife was out of his gut, but that didn't seem to be the case.

He cast a concerned look in the direction of Gunn and Wes, but they seemed to be handling the crowd fine, the numbers already dwindling below seven.

Spike spun the enthralled Aries around, punching him square in the jaw and delivering a tough roundhouse kick that knocked him to the floor. He moved on to the gang of warlocks warily, chanting with their arms in the air and eyes closed.

He wasn't sure what the repercussions of taking them out would be, but right now anything looked better than the destruction of the world.

* * *

ooo what's gonna happen? I dunno...... 


End file.
